Carnal Knowledge
by Jacqueline Noir
Summary: It wasn't something they taught at Hogwarts. And later, when the war came, there was no time for intimacy. Hermione, for one, never understood how it could affect her relationship with Ron. Or why people were so desperate about it. But then Draco Malfoy comes to town. And she learns that pleasure can be a very dangerous game.
1. Chapter 1

"Ron, I told you for the millionth time: WE ARE NOT GOING TO DO THIS!"

His nostrils flare but he casts his eyes down, his cheeks redder than his hair this time. He hasn't meant for the situation to escalate so quickly, but of course he has done something wrong. Again. He braces himself for the onslaught.

"I mean…" she continues more softly, surprising him yet again. "We are going to have a lifetime to do just that. I don't see why we have to rush it. To me, the connection it's important and I… well, I certainly don't think that a mere physical act can change things that much. I mean, we're more important than a little pleasure, aren't we, Ron?"

"Of course we are!" he erupts. "But, Mione… I reckoned that a few months don't make that much of a difference. We've been together for three years and we're getting married. And you don't need to be afraid with me, I know what I'm doing and it could be so good… "

Her face darkness and he realizes with a sharp intake of breath just what much of a mess he made.

"You don't have to remind me about who exactly taught you what you know, now do you, Ron?" she hisses and glares at him.

He is even more ashamed now, the guilt gnawing at his stomach, and he is all fidgeting fingers and tense spine. Of course she is right, Hermione is always right. And he… well, he loves her so much. But that doesn't help him too much, because regardless of his actions he's always one step behind. There's always a meaning that he fails to grasp, a reference that he doesn't quite catch and a constant desire to impress her that only has him failing miserably.

But then, just like she does now, she leans over and kisses him softly and he forgets what was he so upset about in the first place. The softness of her mouth is a blessed magic trick that he can't get enough of.

"We'll have a lifetime to explore and erm… perform the necessary acts to induce pleasurable feelings to each other," she assures him. It makes him feel better but then he inhales her scent and longs for her even more. She is right of course, perhaps, no, scratch that, definitely. If he hadn't known what it is like, with Lavender, he wouldn't be craving it now. He should have, as the proverbial advice has it, keep it in his pants.

The restaurant is half-full and cozy, with plush chairs and old lights that makes it very comfortable. Everyone around them seems to be deep in conversation in that warm September evening. Wizards and witches engage in polite chatter, while eating and drinking happily, although, to be honest, he rather longs for Molly's food and he thinks the portions are too small. He catches himself and surmises he should focus on something else, a conversation topic that will not earn him that stern glare while she huffs at him. His time is getting shorter because he catches her eyeing her wristwatch every two minutes.

A deep voice breaks the silence around them like a hammer breaks a thick ice block.

"Ginevra," the man greets politely and they both turn towards him, startled by the name.

They don't see him yet, as a beautiful, blonde woman blocks their view when she hugs him then places a kiss on his cheek. The first thing that goes through Hermione mind is that she never seen the witch before, but those fine robes must cost a fortune. Ron only thinks she's the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on.

But then, she moves aside and they both freeze.

Draco Malfoy stands tall and proud, offering the woman a guarded smile, but wrapping her in his arms nonetheless. He immediately makes room for her next to him and the witch smiles wickedly and says something that they can't hear, but that extracts a wider smile from him as he leans in toward her. She thinks she can detect a foreign accent in the woman's voice.

"When did that git come back to England?" Ron complains.

"I really don't know," Hermione replies with a frown at her own inability to provide a correct information.

"His father just finished his sentence in Azkabam. The Ministry will be sure to keep an eye on the Malfoys," Ron spats now and in that exact moment the blonde's eyes shoot up and he looks directly at them.

Hermione's breath catches in her throat and Ron scowls. But it only lasts for a moment because he returns his full attention on the woman next to him.

"Oh my god, Ron, do you think he heard our conversation?" Hermione frets. "He's standing so close to us," she whispers and leans in to give him a pleading look.

Ron's cheeks start to get pink again.

"Nah, definitely, he could never hear us," he says, but gulps.

Hermione watches over her shoulder, analyzing him carefully. He looks so… different. The last thing she has heard about him was that he had fled the country as soon as he has been exonerated right after the war, after offering his full cooperation. There had been rumors, of course, not that she was listening, too busy to reconstruct her own live. But they multiplied by the year. Some said he was involved in a nefarious business in France. Others claimed that they had spotted him in Austria and that he had been involved with some… different witches. And finally, most of them were relived not to have him around: the wizarding world didn't know what to do with defectors, especially those as famous as the Malfoys.

She studies him as inconspicuously as possible. He wears somber robes, but her trained eye tells her they are still the best the money could buy. He sits almost casually in his seat, laid back to the outside eye, but she noticed the tenseness in the muscles of his neck, the careful, unwavering gaze as people around him start to speak in hushed tones. His blonde-silver hair is almost like another light bulb in the indoor lights, his grey eyes hold a steely glint and his lips barely move, as he lets his guest to lead the conversation.

Perhaps it is the fact that she hadn't seen him in three years and she cannot recall his features correctly, but there is something new about him, in the way he carries himself. She tries to put a name to the change, but all she comes up with is maturity: he is and looks older than the boy she last saw.

He and his partner are now very close, huddled and whispering and suddenly an alarm goes off somewhere inside her head, just as she realizes Ron has been speaking and she hadn't been paying attention in the slightest.

"… so yeah," Ron mumbles, "Harry hates it if I'm late so I have to go now. I'll see you home later?" he asks full of hope.

"Maybe, perhaps," she replies, "I still have work to do at the Ministry… might take a while… will let you know if it's possible."

Ron leans in expectantly but she is so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she misses the gesture until a muscle in his neck makes a small cracking sound and she sees his lips very close to her face. She tilts her head and offers the quickest of kisses, not noticing the disappointed expression and the defeated way he trudges across the restaurant and to the door.

Instead, she looks back at the pair of them. Are they plotting something? That unknown woman laughs excitedly and chatters without a break, but Malfoy smiles rarely and whenever he has something to reply he seems to lean in closer, his hand sneaking into hers. She is very satisfied as the weakest display of affection, but teases him too, if she hears correctly. Because, while she is pretending to finish her tea, she is actually straining to catch every bit of their dialogue. There is a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that something very bad is about to happen so her senses are alert, her body in pins and needles.

She thinks he had caught her staring once or twice, but other than that he ignores her completely. They resume to whispers now and people around them, who were blatantly eavesdropping as she was, look affronted and make sure he is well informed of their scorn. One witch even rasps out "Him? Here? How dare he show his face?" and an older wizard, struts very importantly and shakes his head in disapproval while gesturing for the waiter to bring him the check. He says loud enough for those near him to hear: "I can't believe you're accepting former criminals in your establishment!"

Hermione cringes at these outraged reactions. Of course, she does not believe that much in his redemption either, especially when he shows himself in public at evening with a foreign witch and whispers conspiratorially in her ear. But she thinks it's very ill-mannered to express displeasure in such a blatant way. War has been hard on a lot of people, there is no need to prolong the aftermath.

Malfoy leaves some cash on the table, then takes his partner's friend and they saunter off. He is stern and decided, she is gay and beautiful and they both make such a perfect couple than people resume to antagonizing them silently, their mouths pursued but the words stuck in their throats.

On a curious impulse, Hermione pays for her meal and decides to follow them.

Once outside, for a second there, she thinks she has lost them. She pauses to catch her breath when she takes a corner on the busy street and she feels ashamed at her own behavior, for it's so uncharacteristic of her to go on a hunt based on nothing but a hunch. This is Harry's way and not hers. Still, there is an urge in her and when she catches a glimpse of two blondes, throwing conspicuous looks around them, she heads in that direction without thinking twice.

Sure enough, they seem to look for the less traveled roads, taking turns again and again, while he casts glances behind his shoulder. He finally ushers the woman in a very tight alley where no one ever seems to stop, and that partly shadowed by a wall behind them. It is impossible to watch them from ground level anymore, so she frantically scans her surroundings. Just as she is about to give up, she notices an old, abandoned staircase that leads up to the roof of an adjacent building. She tiptoes, careful not to make a sound as her heart thuds spasmodically, feeling on the verge of a great discovery. Once on the roof, she crawls towards the edge. Just a few more inches to get there and her wand is ready to send a Patronus as her instincts seem sharpened. She pulls herself up on her forearm and she finally notices them… kissing passionately?

She is flabbergasted for a few long seconds, the only witness to two young people whose restless hands explore each other's bodies through fine robes. Hermione swallows nervously as Malfoy's hand reaches up for the woman's breast and he fondles it through her blouse. The blonde's hair tilts back and she moans freely. Malfoy's eyes are staring hard at her and his gaze, darkened by desire, looks dangerous and all consuming.

To Hermione's utter dismay the woman pulls him closer for a frantic kiss and she actually rubs herself on his body, up and down as if he is her own pleasure machine. She has never seen a girl act so wantonly in real life but Malfoy lets out a wheezing breath and grabs the back of her hair and Hermione knows, she just knows, his tongue is in the woman's mouth. She thinks she should feel like gagging, she knows the decent way to do is run, as the warm tiles press into her own body and the time to be back in the office approaches soon, but she is glued to that roof, her stunned eyes not leaving the couple for a single second. The more they go on, the more her own clothes chaff, like binds against her skin and every time the couple moans she bites her fist, hoping the pressure of her teeth sinking into flesh can bring her back to reality. She watches them without really understanding what she witnesses and she knows that soon she will be part of something that can never be erased from her memory. Something deeply personal and forbidden to any watcher's gaze. Still, she remains hidden. In a distant part of her mind, the word "voyeur" struggles to reach her conscious thought, but for now, she only witnesses the woman unbuckling Draco's belt. Her throat feels painfully dry.

 _"Oh, God, Oh, God,"_ she thinks, " _they are going to do it."_

Instead, the woman slowly slides down on her knees and Hermione's eyes widen: is that some sort of a ritual? She has heard of dark rituals that involve sexual moves and she is alert again. There is a part inside of her that is overjoyed at the thought of a logical explanation for the current events. It's the hope that she is more than a stalker.

She waits. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. And then Malfoy's belt is thrown to the floor. Hermione's hand tenses on her wand. Her muscles are so taut that she feel they might rip if she stretches her neck any further. Her jaw is clenched, and her nerves are frazzled, as memories of the war days flash before her eyes. And then…

Nor Malfoy, nor the woman have their wands drawn. His back leans against the wall and her hands graze his hips, pulling back his underpants. She studies his face then, watching him writhing and still wondering what kind of ritual is this and if she will ever be able to erase the images from her memory. She doesn't realize what has happened when he jolts away from the wall but she is startled too. He falls back in a second, his head thrown back and a long moan escapes his throat. It is only afterwards that Hermione sees the woman's head bobbing up and down on…

She gasps loudly and snaps her eyes shut firmly. She ducks her head beneath the tile and fights with herself to keep out the loud breaths of shock as they struggle to erupt from her core.

 _Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!_

Hidden as she is, the image of their… nasty act is not in front of her anymore but she hears his moans now, cut at times by slurred "Argghhs" and "Yeseess" and they echo around her brain, hitting her scalp and ingraining themselves in her mind. Everything is wrong, from the way her body itches under the unnatural, scolding heat of the roof, to the way fear and anxiety bubble up inside her and they become mixed with a mind bending confusion that threatens to overtake her.

She inches up toward the edge again, just to make sure she hasn't been imagining things and the image strikes her as strong the second time too. His hands are in the woman's tresses, long fingers gripping the scalp while he pulls her where he wants it the most. There is sweat on his forehead now and his mouth is open in ecstasy, throaty sounds escaping it while his eyes are shielded by heavy eyelids. He grunts, moans, shivers and slurs words to her. Little encouragements that seem to work, guiding her in an intense plea to where he needs it the most. Their rhythm picks up right before her eyes and Hermione can see the woman's hand gripping his naked ass, while she moves against him vigorously, at an erratic pace. She moans too, humming on his flesh and he curses now and speeds up yet again, his hands pulling her more agitatedly. Gripping the edge, Hermione snaps her eyes shut and moves back just before he lets out a strong grunt and then a long moan.

The noise stops completely and something prickles at her skin, hot sweat and shattered nerves and something more. Curious, she tilts her head forward, just in time to observe them kissing passionately and she thinks she should be disgusted by the kiss right after… but somehow she isn't. Instead, she stares at their tangled limbs and languorous kisses as if they want to mold into one being.

She yelps and pushes herself back when a pair of grey eyes focus on her direction. Covering her mouth with a hand she grips her wand with the other and Disapparates with an almost soundless "pop".


	2. Hands in The Cookie Jar

**A/N: Welcome back, wonderful readers! Many thanks to LightofEvolution for the lovely review. Enjoy!**

 _But did he see her?_

This is the question that plagues her at 9 AM the next day and the one she has been playing on repeat on her mind for most of the night before. When she did managed to sleep, her dreams involved a certain blond man with a rapt expression on his face, and broken movement, up and down, that only stopped when moans echoed from wall to wall. She had awoken several times in a sweat, disturbed and anxious and always thirsty like she hasn't tasted water for days.

Even now, almost 24 hours after the events, her hands still tremble if her mind is immersed down the path to that memory. She paces up and down her Ministry office, unable to focus on a single matter. She yelps when the door is open and a colleague barges in.

"Hermione," Cormac McLaggen is saying way to cheery for her, "what a wonderful day isn't it?" She nods weakly and swallows. "How's work? Oh, can I have a coffee too? I just wanted to make sure I'll see you at the party tonight!" he rushes in a jocular manner and then actually winks at her, making her jolt back in surprise. Unaware of her discomfort, he gives her a peck on her cheek and then saunters out of the room as jolly as he came. Hermione wants to rush after him and out of the building.

The nerve of that man! And his horrible, horrible timing!

It's the first time in years that she has trouble rationalizing something and it eats her from the inside. What the hell was Malfoy doing back in England so unexpectedly? Why did he commit such… blatant sexual acts? What if someone would have caught them?

 _I caught them!_

She blushes fiercely at the memory and it seems that the image of his head thrown back in pleasure is etched upon her memory, imprinted on her retinas. She feels a cold chill when scenes from the previous days flash before her eyes and they rush one after the other until the guilt and the shame threaten to suffocate her. There is an unwanted heat in her belly, spreading from her toes to her neck and she is frightened by it. And has a half-mind to go see a doctor.

But most of all, she prays to every known deity that he hasn't spotted her, staring at the… was that love-making? Was it just… err… oral stimulation? Did he… ermmm… return the favor afterwards?

Oh, Lord! This is what Malfoy has done to her. Tainted her forever with such blatant display of nymphomaniac affections. Or something along the lines. There must be a book about it somewhere.

With the last remains of self-preservation she does her best to push thoughts of him out of her mind and focus on work. It was dangerous enough to find out that three Death Eaters have escaped Azkaban.

And a fourth had been released a week before: Lucius Malfoy is finally free.

Ron stares hard for a few seconds and she hugs her chest, self-consciously. He stares some more. It goes on until she stomps her foot loudly and, although acknowledging how childish it looks like, she sets her arms akimbo. Ron straightens, but not before licking his lower lip.

"Erm… Hermione… you look, wow, why don't you wear this dress more often?" He correct himself. "Blimey, Hermione, I would have never guessed that green looks so good on you!"

She blushes now, but doesn't fight the satisfied smile that spreads on her lips. Instead, she advances towards him and takes his arm. She has bought the dress on a whim, loving the way the fabric clung to her body, almost like a caress. It wasn't like her to show an open back, to wear a décolleté, but she reckoned that the three years anniversary of the Final Battle was a special enough occasion. And, perhaps, at times, she liked to remind people that she has grown into a woman and she's no longer the insecure child ready to save the world. So she leans into Run, breathes him in and walks with him on her small heels, loving the breeze of May on her exposed calves.

"You look great too, Ron," she says and kisses his cheek. Somehow, the gesture feels more intimate that a full-blown French kiss.

They Apparate just outside the Ministry premises and soon they meet old friends and acquaintances. Everything speeds from that point: she is quickly swept up in a crowd of Magical Law Department employees, while Ron converges with his fellow Aurors. She gets just a quick glimpse of his giveaway red hair before he disappears in a small crowd and she is left answering questions about S.P.E.W.'s efforts. At times, she watches the people around her, observes their interactions. She somehow gets through the buzz around her, her thought quieten, her movements slow and she tries to get the bigger picture, as if she were an witness to the scene and not an actual participant. Looking at their laughing faces, it seems odd that there was a war three years ago. They look young, eager, blending in the crowd and full of life. At times, there is a crack in this image, because she knows almost everyone around her has lost someone they cared about in the war, but they go on, learning to smile again and take from live whatever they can. There are marriages happening, where old friends come together to drinks and celebrate and there are births of children who have never been licked by the flame of war. Who, perhaps, will never know the agony of being called Mudblood and will never experience fear for their parents' faith. _Her children_ will live in a carefree world full of music and laughter.

And then she sees him and she whips her head around, short of breath. Draco Malfoy has just entered the room, the beautiful blonde girl on his arm and she can basically feel the tenseness in the people whose path he crosses. When she finally looks again, his back is stiff and his expression unreadable, but the woman walks confidently, the self-assured smile never leaving her face. There is something electric about her, in the dynamic of her moves and the tilt of her head that tells the audience they will never wipe the smile off her face. She holds his arm like it's the most natural thing in the world and seems impervious to all the commotion they cause.

Hermione retreats in a corner and watches them and those who watch them. They find themselves a quiet spot at one of the tables and he signals for the waiter to bring them two glasses. She leans in to whisper something in his ear and he seems to relax at this, only if slightest. Those around him seem to disperse, as if they do not wish to stand in their way. Young girls watch the couples with something akin to fascination, while the older people express their dissatisfaction openly, sneering over the brims of their glasses or simply turning their backs to them: as if, if they do not make eye contact, the couple is not there at all.

But they are there, dressed in the finest robes, although Malfoy still looks somber in black and Ginevra's clothes are simple cut, but efficient in displaying all the gifts that Mother Nature gave her. Hermione watches them as if trying to solve a puzzle, unconsciously biting her lower lip, safe from view behind a canopy of whispering people. She is woken up from her reverie by the voice of another Ginevra, tugging at her elbow.

"Would you look at that!" Ginny says, pointing to them. "The nerve of those people!" she huffs, but Hermione knows her well enough to see that she is half-amused.

"What? Malfoy and his guest?" she asks, hating how stupid she sounds. "I just found out he has a job at the Ministry, but no one would actually disclose where exactly…"

"In your department," Ginny supplies, a twinkle of mirth in her eyes. "They'll let you know tomorrow." There must be a flicker of panic in her face because the redhead goes on, teasingly. "Why, Hermione, I'd hoped you'd be happy at the news! You will finally get the chance to boss that blonde git around."

"Boss him around?" she says, her voice a mere squeak, while a recollection of yesterday's events unfolds before her.

"Oh, yes," Ginny answers with glee. "Word has it he's going to train for the Magical Law Department, under your direct supervision. Personal Assistant, I think he's called? Gives you the opportunity to, you know, knock some sense into his bigoted, asshole self. Just imagine, the great Malfoy" she says snickering at the expression "taking orders from his former rival, Muggleborn Hermione Granger. I get sweet dreams just imagining the look on his face. "

Hermione gulps: there is another look on his face that she is reminded of. Her eyes trail across the room and she is startled, sputtering on her drink: a pair of big, darkened grey eyes lash out like a bullet from a gun and pierce through her with an intensity so unnerving that she actually takes a step back. By the time Ginny asks her what the matter is, he has turned his back to her and is engaged in a seemingly polite conversation with an elderly Ministry employee. The blonde woman never leaves his side.

"Who's that?" Hermione croaks and Ginny arches an eyebrow until her friend's index finger points to the gorgeous woman.

"The American," Ginny replies. "I keep forgetting her last name – honestly, why does she also have to be called Ginevra?! – but she is the very rich daughter of a high-ranking Ministry official in the States. The one responsible for the Magical Cooperation Department. Rumor is her daddy got Malfoy the job. And, you know, they'll probably end up married and producing a washed up blond haired kid with a pointy nose."

"Ginny!" Hermione admonishes, but the redhead shrugs and takes off to greet Neville.

Hermione feels a pang of guilt, or perhaps jealousy as she waves to Neville: she might be book smart, but she'll never have that magnetic quality that draws people to Ginny or enables her to find out all the news before anyone else. She scans the room again and her gaze lands on Harry and Ron, huddled together with Padma Patil in between them and the pretty girl pats Ron's arm, laughing freely at some joke another. This is a portrait of normality and Hermione breathes easily for a moment.

There is a prickle on her skin and she swears she can feel him before she sees him. He moves in her direction, fast and steady and the hairs on the back of her neck stand. She feels her throat dry, and her palms itch: she wills herself to be still.

Malfoy moves towards her gracefully, silver hair falling on his eyes, the faint smell of his cologne invading her senses. Every nerve in her body acknowledges him, recognizes something that she can't put her finger on. She hears the staccato of his footsteps and braces herself for some sort of impact, paralyzed before him.

Malfoy stops right in front of her. She blinks, because she thinks he has cast his gaze down, but what he does is unabashedly scanning her body, his gaze conspicuous and strong. The breath hitches in her throat as the same eyes linger a moment too long on her chest. She can feel her cheeks burn and then his eyes settle on her, heavy and promising, almost… threatening. Her instincts finally kick in, awoken and fighting the invisible grasp he has on her, but before she can open her mouth, he's gone, striding towards the bathroom.

She finally dares to breathe.

"Take this," Luna chirps happily, appearing out of nowhere and handing her a glass of a swirling yellow liquid. "It will help with your flaming cheeks," she adds to Hermione's further mortification. "What an incredible energy," she muses, to no one in particular.

"What energy?" Hermione breathes out, only then noticing her glass. "What is this, Luna?"

"Cantaloupe liquor," the blonde says smiling. "You looked like you needed some strengthening after your encounter with Draco. Why did he look at you like he asked you a question?"

Hermione takes a quick sip of her drink and cringes at the strong alcoholic taste, barely disguised under the fruity taste.

"Question? Surely, you misinterpreted."

Luna casts her eyes down and Hermione feels guilty. After all those years people, her included, still seem to take Luna's candor and her quirky ways for foolishness and naivety. Hermione feels the shame wash over her and chastises herself for the outburst. It is the dreamy blonde that helps her out.

"I was wondering… "she begins "well, if it would be possible to come by one day and help me sort out this new batch of books that my father ordered. We were told that some of them are really old gems and I thought I could use someone with your knowledge. Only if you want, of course, I wouldn't dare to…"

"I'll come tonight," Hermione cuts in, relieved that she is offered the possibility to make things right. "We can go over them after the party. If it's not too late of course."

"I'll make orange tea," Luna beams and then she too disappears into the crowd.

Hermione scans the room again, knowing she won't have but a moment of peace before someone else claims her attention and she needs to tell Ron she won't be home tonight. She notices Ginevra, Malfoy's friend engaged in deep conversation with two older Ministry officials who seem to hang on to her every word. Hermione feels an irrational dislike to her immediately and turns her attention to Neville, Ginny and Hannah Abbot, laughing out loud at something Dean Thomas has said. A little bit further Harry and Malfoy shake hands and the image is so foreign that she deems it unnatural. On one hand, she knows Harry's determination to make things right and bring everyone together, but on the other… she is still cautious with her forgiveness, feeling that she lost too much to ever be able to fully trust a new person again. A new person or an old enemy. It's a lingering effect of witnessing her parents not knowing who she is for a year.

They exchange a few polite lines and then, as if he felt her eyes on him, Malfoy turns and arches an eyebrow. She feels the tingling sensation in her belly again and quickly averts her eyes. They land on Ron and Padma, drinks in their hands and heads shaking with laughter and Hermione smiles too, happy to see him happy and carefree, just as she loves him the most.

"I'll stay at Luna's tonight," she tells him and he's momentarily taken aback at her sudden appearance next to him, but then he hugs her powerfully and she cringes a little at the strong smell of alcohol in his breath. Padma looks to the side and Hermione feels giddy: for a moment, she plans on ditching the world and staying right where she is.

"I'll miss you, Mione," he whispers to her and she is floored, because they surely must look like one of those annoying couples that are too engaged in what is otherwise known as public display of affection. Her feet move away from him before she is hooked on that lovely feeling.

She thinks that she will claim just a few more moments to herself and makes her way through the crowd and into the magical terrace, taking even more sips from Luna's liquor, which seems to appeal to her after all. She's happy, her previous shame forgotten, the words and gestures of her friends all she needs to carry on.

She has everything, she thinks with a deep feeling gratitude: her parents are safe and alive, her fiancé is kind and loving, her friends are happy and looking to the future and she has a job that she adores. She is so happy actually that she is afraid of how much gifts can one person receive. If she were religious she'd say a prayer, but instead, she decides to dedicate her life to better things in the wizarding world and ensure that others are granted this kind of happiness too.

The sound of decided steps interrupts her reverie and she knows who it is before she turns to face him. It's unnerving, the way the hairs on the back of her neck stand, the way a chill creeps its way along her bare arms. She feels cold and uncomfortable and he is getting closer. She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth and turns around.

He is… smoking? Barely a meter away from her Draco Malfoy lights up a cigarette, takes a long drag and then exhales with a satisfied puff. The smoke gets in her stunned face and he smirks at her coughing, taking another drag.

"These will get you killed, Malfoy," she says before she can refrain herself.

"So will curiosity, but it seems both will _thoroughly_ satisfy you first."

She is so keen on having him put the cigarette away that she does not ponder over the meaning of his words. What she notices instead is the deep rasp of his voice, the agile way the words have been delivered, as if he has the upper hand and she should know it.

"Plus," he adds nonchalantly this time. "I always thought you'd be quite happy to get rid of me."

She doesn't grace his implication with a proper answer.

"Isn't it beneath you to adopt a Muggle custom?" she baits. "Doesn't it breech some ancient code of Malfoy pureblood honor?"

His mood shifts instantly: his jaw clenches at her jab and he gives her a hard look.

"Always the same judgmental shew, Granger! Weren't you, Gryffindor Princess," he answers, spatting the last two words as if they were venomous on his tongue, "responsible for rebuilding the wizarding world and putting aside old prejudices? Guess you're just as hypocrite as the old league, then."

"Hypocrite?"

"Don't get high and mighty with me, Granger. You, people, brag about how noble is of you to have forgiven us, low lives purebloods, and offer us a second chance, when in fact, you're all bigger racists than we were. Clambering on your high horses and looking down on us like some scum who should never set foot in your dearest, closed door, merry-go-round society. I'm disgusted," he sneers and takes another puff.

"We are not-"

"The hell you aren't. I've had people spit on me the moment I set foot back in England and now I have you judging me because I am smoking a bloody cigarette. What? Am I not allowed to touch your precious, Muggle cigarettes?" he says and then takes a final drag, inhaling deeply and taking a step closer to blow smoke in her face once more.

She turns around and coughs, feeling her eyes tearing up: she had always, always hated cigarettes. She detests their smell, the faux cool, je m'enfiche type of attitude that some smokers think cigarettes help them achieve. But most of all, she hates the consequences of the addiction, having already lost a grandparent to lung cancer. She can't explain all this to him.

"Suit yourself," she finally says and means to walk away. He pulls her arm, making her turn around.

The hold is strong and it hurts a bit and when she raises a reproving gaze to question him his eyes are shielded, cold and obscuring any answer she might demand. She has only a moment to take in the taut skin on his face before all her senses seem heightened when he rubs his thumb on her forearm. The skin beneath his touch seems to erupt in a hot and cold shivers and they spread along her arm, to her dry throat and to the exposed skin on her chest. It's where his eyes set too, relentless in their stare as the thumb moves in circling motions, soft and strong at the same time. She means to ask him what he's doing, wary of the way he steps closer now, but she is trapped under the weight of her own indecision. She knows she should push him away, yet, her gaze sets on his own and where a couple of seconds ago there was a chill, it is now a vapid, momentous fire.

He moves closer still. Her eyes shoot up.

There is something very unfamiliar about him. His face doesn't hold the childish pride anymore. His pointy features dissolved into a hardened expression. The only thing that seems to have stayed the same is his silver hair, white in the low light and falling onto his eyes, making him the spitting image of a royal. His eyes are steely now, darkened like ash and focused on her. His high cheekbones seem locked in place. His lips are fuller than she remembers, but she had never seen them so close. They're slightly open now, dark pink and full and almost predatory. Hot air comes out in small puffs and a faint scent of cigarettes that is not as offensive as she has imagined.

"Funny," he says finally and leans on the railing, "I would have never taken you for one who runs away from an argument."

"I don't like to fight. Not anymore," she admits and they both fall silent.

She doesn't know what to say. She itches to know where he has been all these years, but she can't just open her mouth and ask, that just won't do. She wants to bring up the fact they will work together and, after a small argument in her head, she does just that.

"I heard you will be working with me," she says in what she hopes to be a neutral tone.

"Contain your glee, Granger. I will not be the small pet for you to boss around."

She is indignant. "I don't treat my colleagues like pets."

He laughs, a hallow sound that echoes in the air around them. "That's not what Dean Thomas says. Met him in France a couple of months ago and he was quite eager to share just how overworked he was and how no one could, how did he put it, ah yeah, please you no matter how hard they try."

She is mortified now, small under his shameless smirk. Malfoy lights another cigarette and she goes through all the memories of her and Dean working together, at a speed that is about to make her head explode.

"You're lying," she says. "Dean would never say all this to someone like you."

"Someone like me? Or, perhaps, not all Gryffindors are so prejudiced, holding Hogwarts grudges like petty little girls like you. "

"I am not –"

"- you better keep in mind that I will not be treated like your freaking house-elf, Granger. No need to rub off your insane working hours and swotty little ways on me."

"I most certainly –"

" – and none of your prejudiced bullshit. I have no qualms about reporting your sorry ass to the Minister of Magic. And we both know you grovel to his office in the hope that you'll take his seat one day."

"That is definitely not what –"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger! You actually are so deluded that you don't even recognize what you want. Of course you want to be Minister of Magic, save me your lame excuses!"

She is seething. She balls her palms into fists because she's too temped to claw his eyes out, while he stands there, looking an unattainable level of royalty even with the snarky way he holds the cigarette between his lips. She makes a move then, taking out her wand before she thinks too much and a furious wave of icy cold water splashes over him for a few seconds until he is left drenched and wide eyed.

She takes a step back to admire her handiwork, water pouring freely out of his clothes, cigarette pack washed out in the drain and wet hair sticking to his forehead. She catches the mean gleam in his eyes and is very careful to stay out of his reach.

"Pettyl!" he mutters under his breath and instead of drying himself with his wand he proceeds to take off his suit and throw it to the ground. Next, his long fingers unbutton his shirt, proceeding at the slowest rate possible.

With every button, a vision of the palest white skin emerges and she finds her eyes glued to it. She has seen that skin before, embarrassing her to no end, but this time it is right before her eyes; she knows that if she extends her arm, her palm could flatten out on his chest and, despite herself, she feels the urge to do just that. She swallows nervously when the fingers reach the final button and then he peels his shirt off, exposing a lean chest and wide shoulders. She finds herself gripped by a feeling she cannot understand and a warmth in her stomach that threatens to take over. Her eyes roam over the exposed skin, taking in every scar, the scarce, blonde hairs on his chest, the taut muscles on his abdomen.

"My, my, Granger, "he sing-songs and only then she looks back at him. "You look like you're enjoying what you're seeing."

She wants to argue it, but the words are stuck in her throat. He moves towards her, stealthily, agile and before she knows he is standing right behind her, the bare skin of her upper back colliding with the cold skin of his chest. A violent shiver awakens her every sense. A strong arm coils around her stomach. Even before he speaks, his hot breath hits her earlobe and she whimpers.

"Ntz, ntz…" he breathes out right in her ear while the tips of his fingers graze her stomach through the thin fabric of her dress. "Don't you worry about it, Granger: I already know you like to watch."

The world shrinks to the space of this final line and she wishes the earth could open up and swallow her. When he releases her, she is left a mess of frazzled nerves, unwanted shivers and all-encompassing humiliation.

 _He knows_ , she tells herself. _He knows, he knows, he knows_.

When he steps back, a vibrant shiver shakes and her nipples harden from the cold: she feels them so erect she's afraid they can cut through the fabric of her dress. Furious, her head whips around to give him a piece of her mind, but it's only the ghost of his presence that greets her eyes. She hugs herself, shaken and wills her sanity to return.

When she dares to go back to the party, most of the people are gone already. She finds Luna, patiently waiting for her in a corner, but she's too harassed by the evening's events to be able to join her. Offering her most sincere apologies and a fierce promise that she will join the girl some other day she looks for Ron, but finds him gone already. Harry, Neville and Ginny are gone too.

Not bothering to say any more goodbyes, she rushes to the Apparation spot and holds her breath until she finally sees the comforting surroundings of the apartment she shares with Ron. She collapses in the living room couch, reveling in its softness as she rubs her tired temples. Unexpectedly, she catches a whiff of strong perfume and she smells herself, curious to see if someone's hug was so strong as to leave such a scent on her. However, she identifies the perfume, strong, but tasteful, coming in from an unfamiliar scarf that sits forgotten on the back of her favorite chair.

Did Ron buy her a gift that she forgot about?

Just then, an identified noise comes in from Ron's bedroom and she freezes. She thinks about calling his name, but bites her lip instead. Her shaky limbs carry her towards the bedroom, warm candlelight spilling in the hallway from the door left ajar.

She thinks she hears a moan and she flinches. Her hand is tremulous when she pushes the door wider.

She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle the gasp. The musky scent of sex invades her nostrils as the sound of skin slapping on skin hits her eardrums. Ron grunts powerfully as his naked body pounds into the soft, lush curves of a brown skinned woman. Her full, round breasts are almost crushed as he rolls his hips into hers, with an animal-like abandon. Their bodies are sweaty, molded into one. The woman writhes energetically and digs her nails into his back murmuring half-words, begging him for something. Ron's hand sneaks between them and his mouth bursts into a pained moan as he kneads her generous breast, twisting the nipple between his fingers. The woman is almost delirious with pleasure now and she pulls him to capture his mouth in a hungry kiss. She releases him quickly to rasp a couple of desperate "yes" and Ron thrusts harder, maddened. The woman bites his earlobe and he cries out, moving even faster. She comes with a louder cry yet, clenching her legs around him until he is spent inside her. He falls on top of her with a look of sheer bliss that is sprawled all over her pretty face too as she lazily licks his neck.

Hermione lets out a strangled cry and both Ron and Padma turn eyes mirroring the same horror.

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Any feedback makes my day!**


	3. The Aftermath

She moves like a ghost. Her feet trudge wearily over the cold floor of the Ministry and she casts her eyes down, not wanting to chat with anyone. It's a busy Monday morning and the place is bustling with people, but she moves inconspicuously, huddled in a heavy shawl and avoiding any interaction. She takes the barely walked upon stairs, instead of the crazy elevators, and winces when she reaches fifth floor: her office is on the 12th. She is even colder as she sweats from the effort and wipes her forehead with her sleeve, knowing her hair must look like an unkempt bush, but not caring enough to mend it. There is a pain in her muscles that has nothing to do with the effort of climbing up a few stairs and an ache in her heart that she doesn't believe it will ever go away.

An unwanted image of the two lovers pops into her head and just when she thinks she has no more tears, she cries once more, falling down and gripping the railing to steady herself. She sees Padma's beautiful skin glistening with sweat, her voluptuous curves embracing her fiancée's – former fiancee's –body. She remembers Ron, closed eyes and haggard breath, thrusting rapidly, too caught up in the act to see her watching them. She thinks she feels it too: the intensity of their movements, that insatiable hunger that took hold of them, the elasticity of the rushed muscles as they struggle to meet the other's tempo. She scratches her skin because she feels dirty now, despite the many showers she took, like their love-making it's etched upon her skin, a permanent tattoo. The anger bubbles up, clouding her judgement as, for the briefest of moments, she imagines cursing them, causing as much pain as she felt. But then she slumps, defeated, knowing well-enough that she could never bring herself to face them, let alone punish them.

It is why she has hid in her parent's house for the last two days, setting Anti-Apparition wards and spells that warn off any visitor. She knows that Ron had been outside for most of the weekend, trying to reach her, but her parents had kicked him off their lawn repeatedly. She has cried almost constantly, taking little comfort in her mother's arms and the angered, but caring words of her father. She feels so betrayed, so small, that all she wants to do is leave the country and never come back.

 _Just like Malfoy did_ , a thought rushes to her mind, but she shakes her head and ignores it.

She climbs a few more steps. She knows she looks horrible, but she hasn't bothered with her mother's makeup and isn't aware of any glamour charms. She never cared. Perhaps, if she did, an ugly voice rails into her, Ron would not have been involved with someone else. Perhaps if she had been more pretty he would have waited for her.

It's all useless now anyway.

She enters her office without looking and is startled by the annoyed voice that greets her.

"Finally," Malfoy spats. "Since when are _you_ late, Granger?"

She looks at him without comprehending for a few moments, until her brain finally kicks into motion and she remembers he works for her now, "Personal Assistant" as per the Ministry's memo she has received over the weekend. The last thing she needs anyway.

For the while it takes her to gather her wits about her he peers at her curiously, then says sternly:

"You caught them."

Her eyes widen and it is a small voice that seems to come from her own throat that asks the stupid question:

"Caught who?"

"Come on, Granger, don't play dumb with me. Patil and Weasley were all over each other at the party. The outcome was obvious for anyone with a pair of good eyes. And then you look like shit: that mane of unkempt hair and red rimmed eyes tell me you have cried for the whole weekend. Just how exactly did you catch them?"

She looks to the side, dejected and he curses:

"Merlin's balls! You caught them fucking, didn't you?"

She thinks she is about to cry again. She bites her lower lip hard to stem the flowing of tears, but they fill her eyes anyway and she digs sharp nails into her palms to focus on a different kind of pain. Malfoy sits up from his chair and throws his hands in the air.

"How inconvenient. To have you mop all over the office in my first day of work. Very unprofessional, Granger."

"I am sorry that my misfortune is inconvenient to you," she spits, regaining some of her composure just because she cannot think she can be humiliated any further. "You are free to leave whenever you like and never come back. There's nothing that keeps you here."

He sneers and crosses his arm in front of her chest.

"It's your fault, you know?" he drawls icily. "Any man that is denied sex with his fiancée is bound to look for it elsewhere. I heard you in the restaurant, you know? Everyone must have heard! If you haven't held on to your virginal self like it's a freaking ancient treasure, then maybe –" Her eyes shoot daggers and he pauses for a second, before he rallies himself and goes on." –then maybe he would have fucked you instead of that Patil tease!"

She slaps him hard. A loud, treacherous sound that echoes around the office and leaves a red mark on his otherwise flawless cheek. He stares at her for a moment – all angry puffs of breath and features contorted in anger – and then actually dares to smile.

"All this wasted fire…" he drawls again, rubbing at his aching cheekbone. "But you should know that this slap doesn't hurt half as much as the truth hurts you. And I'm glad for it," he says and then comes closer again. "You know why, Granger?"

She takes out her wand and points at him, but he is unfazed at the gesture.

"Because I'm sick of huge hypocrites like you that expect the world to grovel at their feet just because they had the guts to do one good thing. Hypocrites that act like they are the only ones worthy of distinguishing good from evil, sauntering among us like Gods, looking down from their high horse like we are not worthy of their gaze," he breaths out in her face and before she can lift her wand he has gripped both of her wrists and holds them in place. "So when little miss perfect, mighty Hermione Granger, ends up with her heart crushed because of her own stupidity to value her virginal self above the only guy who will ever put a ring on her finger, then I am glad you got a taste of how the real world works. How does it feel to finally be in the gutters, like the rest of us?"

She cries now. Cries because her heart overflows and because his grip on her is so painful. But mostly because everything he said makes sense and she hates to hear it from him. And above all, because he fails to grasp the deepest corners of her heart, where she pondered over sexual relationships day in, day out and she wants him to understand. Why, she does not know, but she is humiliated and powerless in his grip.

He finally releases with a disgruntled noise and throws his handkerchief at her. She takes it and dabs at her blurry eyes, crying silently to herself. She slumps into the armchair he has just occupied and it's still warm and smells of him already: this invasion of privacy makes her cry even harder. She feels broken into so many little pieces, humiliated and beaten. Right before the boy that taunted her mercilessly and who has just admitted he takes pleasure from her pain.

She's miserable enough to hide her face behind her palms.

"Granger," his voice breaks through her thoughts. "Stop crying or you're going to get yourself sick!" he orders. "I'm not here to clean your vomit from the carpet."

She only cries further, marginally acknowledging that he's rummaging through her cabinets while cursing under his breath. At last, a cold hand settles on her forehead and she gasps at the unexpected contact.

"What are you doing?" she murmurs.

"You're running a fever," he says emotionless and then almost forces not one, but two potions down her throat."

"You, you," she struggles when he releases her" you poisoned me."

"Of course, I did," he cries out. "Right here, on the Ministry premises, so everybody knows it's me. Boy, am I eager to go to Azkaban! Can't wait for Shackebolt to barge in through those doors and lock me up; truly, nothing will give me greater pleasure." Then he growls. "For fuck's sake Granger, I gave you a calming and strengthening potion that I found in your damned alphabetically ordered drawers. I'm here to work, remember? Today is definitely not a good day to poison you, I'll leave that to some other time."

She glares at him, but the potions have already started to kick in. She regains her focus quickly and her mind swarms with thoughts, despite the calm that settles in her bones. She eyes the stack of papers on her desk, his briefcase next to the armchair she sits in and then she wipes her eyes and steps to her chair.

 _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale._ It hurts, but she does it again.

"Right," she says hoping it sounds more confidently. "Right. Here's what you have to do."

Ginny is about to hit him with her third curse and Ron actually begs for her to stop.

"You shameless, dickheaded, stupid baboon!" she shouts and aims again. "You miserable, good for nothing, shameless idiot!" she follows even harder. "You deranged coward, you lewd lunatic!" she shouts while Ron ducks her spell at the very last moment.

Harry watches the scene grimly. He sits hunched over the table, his head supported by his hands and he sighs when Ginny's voice becomes too loud. He wants to stop her, but then he imagines just how much Hermione must be suffering and just sits there, immobile.

"I am so, so sorry," Ron cries miserably, ducking yet another one of his sister's powerful hexes that hits a porcelain vase instead. It shatters to the floor just like Hermione's trust in Ron must have shattered. Or does she think that Harry was somehow involved too? The thought is unbearable and Harry watches his furious lover slamming Ron with a Stupefy; his best friend is thrown at a wall and winces in pain, but apologizes still.

"How dare you, Ron Weasely?" Ginny shouts. "How dare you mistreat a girl like Hermione? Cheat her! And with Padma Patil!" she ends, her voice a few octaves too high.

"Padma is a nice girl," Ron says and realizes instantly it was the wrong thing to slip because his sister's face acquires a crimson shade.

"Are you in love with her, Ron?" Harry finally finds his voice.

"I love Hermione!" Ron declares. "I know I have no excuses, but Padma and I are only friends and… we haven't planned this, it just happened… Auch!" he grits as Ginny's curse hits him again, leaving a gnash on his left side.

"You should have only done it with Hermione," Harry lets out, extremely uncomfortable at broaching the subject.

"That's the thing," Ron moans, hiding behind the couch to avoid Ginny's wrath. "She doesn't ever do this with me."

As if time itself has stopped, both Ginny and Harry stare at him. Harry feels his cheeks color and then turns his face away at the revelation. Ginny is hesitant for a brief moment only, finding her voice quite fast to bark at him.

"That's no excuse, Ron Weasley! The fact that she wanted to wait, pfff, that's no excuse for you to put your dick inside every available wench," she screams and throws a pillow at his coward back.

"It was only Padma!" he shouts and rolls towards the table, to use it as a shield.

"You should have loved Hermione better!" Ginny is relentless. "You should have known her better, and wait if she decided to wait. You should have known her better…"

"That's it," Ron interrupts her, emerging from behind the table like a soldier who's found the guts to go to war. "She doesn't let me inside her head. Ginny, she never lets me know her. Not really," he ends so miserably that Ginny's confidence waivers. Harry gives him a dejected look, then stares straight ahead as before.

Ginny juts out her chin and then turns her back to him.

"Idiot," she breathes and then right before the door closes behind her and Harry: "Wait until mom hears about this!"

Hermione is amazed at herself. Either Malfoy has given her an overdose of her own potions, either she had managed to get through the day entirely by herself. She has attended meetings, written reports, worked on complicated manuscripts, despite the unbearable pain all over: perhaps, a heartbreak is not enough to take Hermione Granger down. She knows that the moment she is going to leave the Ministry and sink back into her parent's couch the grief is going to return, but for the moment she takes comfort in the busy day and the satisfaction she gets from each accomplished task.

She is quite astonished at Malfoy's knowledge, though she will never openly admit it. He's still cruel, still sees his solutions superior to all others, but he knows what he's talking about. She has discovered small things about him: he has read books that she thought no one else heard off, he was at ease with performing complicated spells and could memorize new material quite easily. And there was an almost flawless, cold logic in the way he worked that was an immense relief to her. Tired of explaining facts to the others over and over again she is finally confronted with someone who can solve in a matter of minutes puzzles that took others days.

There is something else too. A… holistic view. It only takes a day of working with him to fully grasp the effect of his travels on his logic. He can look at a situation from different point of views and extract the essential information. He can understand French like a Native speaker and his German is not half-bad. He is very well acquainted with places in Europe that she has visited with her parents along the years and can recall them in precise detail. She is flabbergasted, a little satisfied, and a little envious at his ability, especially when he scowls at her so often or challenges her every half of hour.

But it's just for the show, she realizes. After the initial mortifying display, he doesn't remind her of the incident in the alley, nor of the morning's events. He taunts her about the perfect tidiness of her office, to the point of being obsessive-compulsive, or about the bossy voice that she seems to employ when talking to others. He makes it perfectly clear that he does not take orders from anyone and blatantly ignores her requests at time, but he has his eyes and ears open and learns fast.

Under any other circumstances, she thinks she might enjoy working with him. For the time being though, she catches him eyeing the clock and the more the day turns to evening and his stomach rumble – there was too much to do to have a lunch break – the testier his answers get.

She finally sends him to arrange his own desk, an extension of hers really, with not even a door in between – although he threatened to get one anyway - with the promise that it's the last task of the day.

She is tired too, but dreads going home. Well, to her parent's house anyway, because she does not have the courage to confront Ron in order to tell him she wants to move out. Nor has she informed her whole social circle that she broke their engagement.

There is a soft knock on the door and she sighs: calls at this hour usually mean trouble. She invites the guest in, but when Padma's mournful face appears in the doorway, she freezes in shock, as if bitten by a poisonous snake.

"Hermione, I…" Padma murmurs and her red eyes tell her she has been crying too. The dark – haired girl fidgets, shifts her weight from one foot to another, until she finally closes the door behind her. "I feel horrible," she finally says, not daring to look at her. "Ron and I… I… I never meant to hurt you. It only happened twice."

 _Twice._ Hermione feels the lash of an invisible whip across her chest and she flinches.

"We never meant it to happen," Padma goes on and it feels like torture. "He must have told you… First time… well, first time it happened just because we got drunk on Luna's birthday party and ended up in my bedroom somehow…" She falters. "Oh, Hermione, I am such a horrible friend," Padma moans, pulling her fingers through her thick, luscious locks. "Please, please forgive me."

"And the second time?" Hermione dares, her jaw clenched, her eyes wild. "How did it happen the second time?" she manages to say.

"It was my fault," Padma murmurs, her shoulders slumped, her lower lip quivering. "I think I was intoxicated, although I know it's not an excuse. But I saw Ron there and I remembered the huge crush I had on him at Hogwarts… And then he was sitting there, and he was funny and so handsome it hurt and I remembered his touch. And, Merlin forgive me, Hermione, but he does that thing with his tongue between your legs and I went mad with desire to feel it just one more time! I know, I know," she adds quickly, repentantly "He was always yours. But I was so alone and so weak and you will have him for a lifetime and I only wanted a brief moment of happiness… I thought that if you didn't know I could be happy just once and then everything will go back to how it was. Oh, I was so stupid, Hermione, " the girl wails and comes closer. "Please, please, forgive me, oh, Merlin, I'll never do it again, I'm cursed, please Hermione, forgive me!"

But Hermione's face is stony, unforgiven, angry. She grits her teeth and gives Padma a withering glance that makes the girl take two steps back. She speaks again, in a desperate rush.

"You must know how it's like, you of all people know how hard it is to resist him when his skin gets so warm and he kisses your breasts the way he does and he's so lost in the moment! You must understand why I wanted that, why I couldn't say no. Oh, Hermione, you of all people!"

The invisible whip hits Hermione again, one time, two times, three times and she is powerless to defend herself. She feels shattered and Padma's desperate pleases only provoke a sweltering hate that aggravates every time the girl opens her mouth. She watches her rival with a fierce look, analyzes her mechanically, from her long, tanned legs, to her generous chest, full lips and perfect black hair and is mad with jealousy and pain. She feels the urge to tear Padma's clothes with feral fingers, to strip her naked and force the girl to show her just where Ron has touched her and how. She wants to touch where Ron has touched, to feel what he has felt so she can claim those moments and feelings back, because they were stolen from her. She wants to hurt Padma badly, to inflict the same pain that scorches her veins, poisoning her blood.

"Please," Padma says, her doe like eyes reminding Hermione she is confronted with a real beauty, an unachievable perfection. The bitterness is unbearable and when she bits her lower lip in agony, she tastes the metallic flavor of blood.

"Get out," a voice demands leaving no room for negotiation and Padma is startled to see Draco Malfoy towering over her. She sputters, unable to come up with a proper answer.

"Besides being a lying, cheating whore, are you also deaf, Patil? Get the fuck out!" he barks and Hermione makes no move to stop him and it is only now that Padma notices her right hand is curled around her wand.

Everyone knows just how good Hermione Granger is with curses and hexes.

Padma moves backwards, knocking a shelf or two as she scrambles to get out.

"I'm sorry, I hope you can forgive me one day," she says weakly through a curtain of fresh tears and then she is gone.

Draco Malfoy watches as the great Hermione Granger buckles, and her knees hit the ground before Padma can close the door behind her. She does not cry anymore, but her eyes are glued to the door and there is a forlorn expression on her face that is almost painful to watch. Granger looks like a wounded animal, still caught in the claws of its predator.

He takes one last look at her and then he leaves the office.

 **A/N: As always, a thousand thanks for reading and reviewing. It means the world to me!**


	4. Pesky Little Thing Called Closure

**A/N: You've all been so awesome! Thank you so much for reading this and leaving such amazing feedback! I hope you enjoy this one.**

It is been a month since the fallout. She walks around with a constant dull ache in her heart, but that fades a little under the warm sun of June. She had always loved summer. During her time at Hogwarts, it meant time together with the family she barely saw. It meant trips to beautiful places with her parents and being remembered of her roots. Of how wonderful the Muggle world could be too.

But most of all it was a time when she remembered she had an identity outside the magic world, a safe haven that she could always return too.

Now summer reminds her of loneliness. Perhaps it is a bit harsh to complain about a breakup when she had so many wonderful gifts still, but she has spent years envisioning a life together with Ron. She had imagined them growing old together, raising children together. True to her spirit, she had everything planned ahead.

She takes the elevators to the 12th floor where Malfoy will be waiting not so patiently. She has brought coffee in hope that he will be more tolerable with caffeine in his body and she hopes he has not burnt the place to the ground in the two weeks of holidays she took to arrange her thoughts in order.

She pushes the door to her office open and finds him already deep in a stack of papers, twirling his wand through his fingers absent –mindedly.

"Had enough of running from your responsibilities?" he says as a way of greeting, without ever looking up from his papers.

"I wasn't running from…"

"Save it, Granger! We've got work to do."

She rolls her eyes and places the cup of coffee right before his busy nose. He inhales greedily and then closes his eyes, prey to the exquisite scent of the coffee Hermione paid too much for. He finally looks up and then his expression is half-amused, half-mocking.

"My, my, Granger, someone has run and got a tan while we, mere mortals, were left to deal with the constant shit loaded onto our plates."

"Terrible mental image for 9 in the morning, don't you think? Not very productive, despite your implied dedication to the job."

"Of course. By Gryffindor standards, I should have put on some oversized butterfly wings and prance around the room to greet you."

She laughs out freely, almost childishly and he gives her an odd look. Before he can say anything more she composes herself and sets next to him.

"Come on. Show me: what did I miss?" And by the time she has finished the sentence she had already grabbed hold of the daily Ministry memos and peers over them carefully.

Draco shifts in his seat and looks like he is unable to find a comfortable position, now that she is so close to him. Oblivious, Hermione scrunches up her face in concentration and has already begun to write down some observations. She does not notice that he has stopped altogether and watches her curiously. If she would, she would have probably frown at his intent gaze, lingering on every bit of skin exposed, even if that means only her collarbone, wrists and a few more inches visible under her long skirt. She leans forward, comparing three parchments at once and he stills, inhaling the scent of her perfume mixed with aroma of the hot coffee. He rubs the prickling skin of his neck with his long fingers and is about to leave when he notices she has shifted carelessly that her skirt had ridden up so much her right knee is exposed. He fixates on the round, skinny bone, taut tanned skin displayed among the layer of black fabric of the skirt and disappearing in the darkness underneath the desk. He tilts his head to the side and notices the slim calf, ending up in a small, simple shoe. She is so invested in whatever she's reading that he doesn't think she's aware of the wiggling of her own foot, moving quickly against the floor, like it's seized by a tremor. He presses his palm down on her kneecap and pushes the foot down, stopping its erratic dance. She stills, fingers stuck on the papers she's reading, eyes staring forward. His fingers clasp on the roundness of her knee and his thumb brushes it softly. It sends a wave of tingles along the whole length of her leg and her stomach somersaults.

She turns to him slowly, mathematically, as if she afraid of what she will discover on his face. His eyes are intent when she meets his gaze. The hands clasped around her knee squeezes and he waits. Hermione releases a breath she didn't know she has been holding, but doesn't dare to move. He leans in, pushes her knee down, then opens up his palm and caresses the inner side of her calf. She presses her thighs together, trapping his hand and a shiver climbs up her spine. He smirks, the predatory gleam in his eyes back at full force, but then he extracts his hand, takes the cup of coffee and disappears into his office.

She doesn't move from her chair for minutes at an end, the only sign she's not paralyzed being the rapid movements of her chest as she tries to steady her breath.

She wants to hate his gesture, the lewd and obvious breech of work manners, but she doesn't.

"So what happened with you and Weasley?" he asks nonchalantly, after the lunch they had with their head of the Department. Contrary to her expectation, he had been on his best behavior, deflecting any reason the others might have had to be disgruntled at him. It baffled her, as much as it did the rest of the department. The question he has just asked marks the first time he has addressed her, after the morning accident.

"We broke up," she says simply, not wanting to start a conversation about it. The wound still feels fresh.

"For how long?" he inquires. "Don't give me that confused look, Granger, you two are like a dog and his bone, inseparable and destined to be together and all that shit that Muggle romances warns smart people about."

"You read Muggle novels?"

"There's a lot that you don't know about me, but we are talking about you and Weasley now. Did you talk with him yet or you're still avoiding him like the plague?"

She doesn't owe him any explanations, she's fully aware of that. But from the way he stands there, casually flipping through the pages of a book, she doesn't see why she shouldn't speak about it. It's curious, but somehow it's easier to speak with him, a virtual stranger after all, then with her friends or family.

"No, I haven't spoken with him yet."

"How long before you forgive him?" he asks and she's bothered by his tone.

"I won't," she insists. "Not this time."

"A-ha," he muses. "You still haven't come to realize that you're as guilty for the outcome as he is?"

"Excuse me?"

"You've heard me," he replies and snaps the book shut. "You wanted to marry the guy and be the only one he sleeps with for the rest of his lousy life but wouldn't allow him the decency of a test-drive."

"A what?"

"Come on, Granger," he smirks. "What do muggles say? You don't buy the car without a proper test-drive. You refused to let him try you properly."

She clenches her fingers, but refuses to be baited.

"First of all, I am a human being and not an object, subjected to trials. Secondly, not everyone is a sick pervert like you. For some of us, sex is not the most important thing in a relationship. For some us there are things far more important, like love and trust and building a future together."

"And how has this been working out for you?" he smirks, infuriating her furthermore. "Granger, you're reciting old lines from the book of fucked up relationships. I would have thought that you of all people, with your Muggle background, would approach this with more common sense. But you're clueless aren't you? Tell me, do you think people only have sex to make babies?"

"Of course not!" she bites back, but her confidence waivers. "I just… I don't see why sex has to be some important!"

He watches her as if she's has lost her mind. She squirms under his gaze, but holds her head high.

"Sex, Granger, _is_ the most important thing of a relationship. If you're not compatible in bed, then you can kiss your dreams of a future together goodbye. If he doesn't stir your senses until you boil in your seat, then there's no chance for happiness. If you don't want to jump his bones when he gets out of the shower, then you're going to split from him in the first year of that imagined, blissful marriage."

She wants to answer, wants to deny, but the truth is she has no inkling what to say. This is not something she can just read about in books. For the first time ever, Draco Malfoy knows something that she doesn't. And she's scared of this profane knowledge.

"How can you know that?" she tries, her voice weaker than she would have wanted. "You were never in a serious relationship, the only thing you committed to is the body of a naked witch."

"And Muggles too," he drawls, unaffected, shocking her even further. "Now, now, Granger, don't pull that face on me. Your huge brain cannot comprehend me yet, but don't assume you know everything about me. I might have hated Muggleborn witches and wizards before, but it doesn't take much for a young man to see the benefit in the… different ways people come together in the Muggle world. And just how fast some women are to undress…"

"You will not be slut-shaming Muggle women in front of me!"

"Slut-shaming? No, I quite admire their guts," he says coming closer to hover. "And the things they know how to do, Merlin, it's like falling into insanity without ever regretting it. What's there to shame?"

"You sick, pervert, bastard!" she says and slaps his chest.

She catches her arm easily and twists it behind her back. She struggles but it's futile and in a moment he's behind her too, whispering in her ear like the devil he is.

"What did you feel when you watched us, Granger?"

She stiffens at the memory and her cheeks grow warm.

"Nnn.. nothing," she stutters. "It was a mistake… I… saw you two leaving and you were looking quite dubious and…"

"And let me guess: you thought we were about to go back to our old ways," he mutters and it irks her that she can't see his face. "But fine, let's assume you thought I was up to some nefarious business. At some point or another, you must have realized all Ginevra and I were up to was some serious fun. Why didn't you leave then?"

She knows there's a good answer. It's on the tip of her tongue, ready to be delivered. And yet, when she opens her mouth nothing comes out. His breath is hot on the nape of her neck.

"And when you saw just how far things have gone," he whispers, his body touching hers now, his other arm brushing against her hip, "why didn't you leave then? When you saw Ginevra sliding down to her knees and unzipping my pants why did you still watch, mm?" His hard chest is unbearably hot on her back and she forgets how to breathe properly. "Tell me," he drawls so low that she actually strains to hear, tilting her head back and earning a hiss from him. "Did you like what you see, Granger?" His hand grabs her hip and pulls her towards him, nuzzling her neck. "Did it make you randy to see us? Did it cause you to…" and she can hear the wheeze of his breath "want to be there with us too? Did it…" his voice cracks as he inhales her scent "make you wet?"

She frees herself from him with a jolt and takes three steps forward for good measure. She grabs the edge of her desk to steady herself, her chest rising and falling with rapid movements. When she looks at him, reprovingly, she meets a dark gaze and a stunned wizard, his hands limp at his sides as if he doesn't know what to do with them now that he doesn't hold her anymore.

"Never do that again!" she orders, as menacing as she can manage.

He breathes in and flexes the muscle of his hands.

"Not unless you want me to."

Then he disappears into his office and she can hear him shuffling through papers and whistling to himself.

She only agrees to see Ron because Harry begged her to do it. She is resentful already because it seems like Harry chose a side and it isn't hers. She's hurt but she won't tell him: what use does it make to lose a friend over this?

Ginny opposes the idea. She makes it very clear that she doesn't believe Ron should be granted a second chance, or even an hour to explain. She says so, but Hermione knows that, deep down, Ginny wishes they were back together.

She has changed her outfit twice before opting for sports shoes, jeans and an old sweater, some comfort for the nerve-wrecking evening that she envisions. They agree to meet on a park instead of a dining place: both because she doesn't think she can stomach the food and doesn't want him to cause a scene in a public place.

She expects the pain. Knows very well she walks into the arms of suffering and that seeing him will feel like a relapse. She had missed him terribly. The hope in the clear, blue eyes, the way his body is always warm and that infectious smile that cured every bad day. She has withdrawal symptoms, wanting nothing else but to curl up in his strong, open arms and be held for hours at an end.

Yet, she knows that the meeting they are about to have is nothing but an official goodbye. Logistics.

She spots him walking across the park, fast, speeding towards her when he sees her with that hopeful spring in his steps and a broken joy in his wide eyes. Unknowingly, his hands seem to reach out in front of him, ready to scoop her up and Hermione's heart sinks to her stomach and she struggles desperately not to cry and give in. She takes a step back, just of his reach. He remains confused, with the hands extended forward and an incredulous look on his face.

She shakes her head, points at the bench nearby, and only after they both sit, a long distance apart, does she greets him.

"Hi, Ron," she says in a small voice. She hasn't cried yet, that's a small victory in itself.

"Hermione…" he pleads and she looks down, stubborn, refusing to grant him that unspoken plea in the humble eyes. "I'm so incredibly sorry. I've been such an idiot! Please, please, forgive me! Hermione, I love you more than anything in the world, more than my life, you have to believe me."

She forces her gaze to meet his. She believes him. Yet…

"Why did you do it, Ron? Why did you sleep with her?" She only now realizes how badly she had wanted to ask. Once the words are out, it's like she has discovered a new language that only the two of them can speak. Ron's face is so miserable, his eyes so fragile that she wants to wrap herself around him. She can't.

"I don't want to talk about that," his pained voice lets out. "I beg of you, don't make me talk about it," he adds, the voice almost incomprehensible towards the end.

"I need to know," she pushes on and it hurts her just as much as it hurts him.

He looks down and rests his palms on his knees, looking like an old man nostalgic for the happy days of his youth. His back is hunched, his lips open and close and then he shakes his head, refusing to speak.

He is startled by her small hand on his arm. She squeezes softly, but it feels mercilessly to him.

"Ron, you owe me this. You said you loved me then why… Oh, Ron, I'm going mad, I need to know. Please tell me why! Why wasn't I enough, why weren't we enough?!"

He silences her, his palm covering her mouth and then he moves, enveloping her in his arms. She struggles so hard not to cry that she bites her fist to stop the flow of tears, digs her fingernails into his strong arms to steady herself. But she will not budge.

"Tell me," she whispers, brown eyes boring into blue ones. "I deserve to know."

He concedes with a heavy sigh, lets go of her. But just before he speaks, he caresses her cheek longingly, studying her face with concentration as if he wants time to stop in that precise moment.

"I was drunk, Mione, you know? The first time. Because it only happened twice. And when I woke up that first morning…" She hangs on to his every word, barely daring to breathe. "She was warm and naked and all I could think of was "why couldn't it be you?" Even in her sleep, she had that satisfied smile on her face and I pictured you, smiling contently after we made love. I only wanted it to be you."

She doesn't move an inch, big brown eyes following every movement of his lips.

"I thought that if I closed my eyes and let her… teach me all those things, I can pretend it's you instead and allow myself to be happy about it. I know it's unfair, I know it was despicable, yet…"

"Yet?" she croaks.

"It felt like I was… desired. Accepted. And you know how hard it is to me to feel important to anyone, but she… Argh, Hermione," he says, pulling nervous fingers through tangled hair, "explaining this to you it's torture."

"Please don't stop," she whispers. "Please! Tell me everything."

"Padma seemed to want me, only me and she was so fervent about it that I felt… elated? Is this the word? She did… things and there was no shame in her moves and I didn't have to feel guilty if I touched her one spot or another and I thought of all the places you wouldn't let me touch. I thought of how you pushed my hands away from your body. Padma guided my hands to those exact places, let me discover them and understand how it feels like. Oh, Hermione, if you could only understand how it feels like!" he moans in pain and covers his face with his hands.

She is dumbfounded. She expected to hear him say he couldn't have resisted the temptation of her body. She thought he would recount just how wonderful Padma's curves were compared to hers. In her head, the beauty of the girl was the sole reason Ron had cheated. This is something so much more horrifying. Later, she will remember that Malfoy said a similar thing and it will break her even more. But for now, she just wants to know the full story.

"And the second time?" she barely manages to say.

He shakes his head as if to say "no more!" But she actually nudges him, her fingers painfully pushing in his mid-riff until he takes a deep breath and goes on without looking at her.

"You wore that wonderful dress. All I wanted to do is kiss you everywhere, take it off you and show you just how well I can love you. I pictured you making lovely little sounds of joy, I pictured your face beaming at me, I wanted so much to make you happy! But you just disappeared in the crowd – everyone wants a piece of you these days – and I knew it will not happen. When Padma approached me, laughing with me, enjoying my presence I felt so… appreciated. When she kissed me, she kissed me like I was the only one in that crowd. Like she only wanted me. Mione, I didn't mean for it to go that far. But she made me remember how good it was to be held like that, how… liberating it is not to feel ashamed when I touch naked skin. She… argh, it was like she unleashed me somehow! It was like I've been held back for a long while and I was finally free. I kept holding her and imagining I was doing all those things to you, imagining it was you who moaned, you who let me be so free… Ah, Hermione, I wanted it to be you."

"But I wasn't," she murmurs as she can't block the tears anymore. "It wasn't me who you slept with."

"Why couldn't it be you?" he shouts now. "Why couldn't you let me make love to you, show you just wonderful it can be? Hermione, oh, Hermione, I wanted it to be you."

"I couldn't, I don't…" her voice breaks and she hunches over her knees, like a small child. She cries freely now but pushes his arm away when he tries to comfort her. He ignores her protests and cradles her into his arms.

"Forgive me, Hermione, and let's do this right. Let me make love to you like we should have had. Let me show you just how happy you could be."

She stiffens now. The movie of Ron and Padma caught up in the throes of passion flashes before her eyes again and it feels like their grunts and moans hit her eardrums once more. She sees them clearly again, pushing into each other with reckless abandon, desperate for release. She is terrified of such a thing and his arms around her seem foreign and aggressive.

"Let me go, let me go!" she cries, chocking on her own words. "Do not touch me!"

"I could make you happy," he pleads, refusing to listen to her. "All the things you've seen that wretched night… it can still be you!"

She feels sick to her stomach and punches him in his gut. Ron doubles over, shocked, and she wrenches herself free, taking a few steps behind for good measure.

"I said don't touch me!" she grits, her wand in her hand. Ron is flabbergasted and holds his hands up in surrender.

Hermione shakes violently, but refuses to show any more weakness.

"I'm so, so sorry," he says again and it sounds like an irritating broken record.

"Don't ever come near me again, do you understand?"

He doesn't move from his spot, his hands still extended towards her. She turns around and walks away, crying all the way home.

 **A/N: As always, any feedback is much appreciated! What a ride this is!**


	5. Bruised Skin

**A/N: I am really excited about this one! It's a bit longer than the rest, but I have a feeling you're going to like it, especially the ending! Do enjoy!**

"So when will you start dating again?"

He does this often. Interrupting their regular working routine to ask personal questions. Disrupting her focus with little jabs or mean jokes, itching for a reaction. Blatantly ignoring her carefully planned work schedule in order to start a conversation about God knows what topic. Bothering her to no end to claim answers for his misplaced curiosity.

Sometimes she fights him, sometimes she doesn't. She still hasn't gotten used to his intensity: that peculiar focus that he employs in every little thing he does or says. If it's so energy consuming for her, how must it be for him?

"I don't know," she says from her place on the floor, without looking up, worried about the recent news. The escaped Death Eathers have attacked a village, quite close to London, wrecking multiple houses of Muggles. No victims. But the Aurors haven't managed to catch them yet and there is no telling what they'll do next.

"You should. You have that mien of a suffering victim all over your face. It's nauseating to sit next you."

"Then sit your pompous ass elsewhere and let me do my work!"

Crap! She has taken the bait, damn it. His response comes as fast as she has expected it.

"Yes, indeed, I assume it's quite hard to catch a wizard when it's plain to see that you will protect your virginal attributes until the end of time. So what will it be? Will you tease him mercilessly for a few years until he gets desperate enough to propose? If you're lucky then maybe he will produce an engagement ring and give you his last name just to get in your pants."

There's a bitter taste in her mouth and she bites her tongue.

"Why do you bother with my personal life, Malfoy? And what is this obsessive interest in sex? I saw you hitting on a witch just yesterday, you should be ashamed of yourself, cheating on your girlfriend like that. Are you a nymphomaniac or something?"

"I'm surprised you even know what that word means, Granger, but Ginevra is not my girlfriend," he replies simply and she casts him a confused look that is greeted with a smirk.

"But, of course she is," she rants on, furrowing her brows in concentration. "You parade her everywhere you go."

"There you go, presuming you know everything about my whereabouts, don't you? Ginevra and I are just really good friends…"then, at her suspicious look "with great benefits. I'm sure you already witnessed some of those."

She drops her eyes and he sniggers. Damn it, does he have to hold it over her for so long? She is tired of innuendos and his random, but very private touches and his seemingly never-ending gusto for intimate relationships.

"She must be wanting more," Hermione insists. "I find it hard to believe she's pleased to just sleep with you whenever you feel like."

He smirks, of course he does. "I tend to her needs too, whenever she calls on me. Want me to go into details?" She shakes her head and refuses to look at his smug face.

"She must be jealous," she presses on, although is a losing battle.

"Is she? Tell that to her other lovers."

Hermione's head hurts just trying to figure out the outlines of their… arrangement.

"You don't look like friends," she mumbles, busying herself with some papers.

"You have a narrow view of the world," he retorts, hovering.

"I just keep it my pants, ok?"

"Clearly," he drawls. "With disastrous consequences."

She is silent afterwards, scribbling hastily on some documents, analyzing old Ministry cases for her boss.

"Dating, Granger," he prompts, not letting her off the hook. "I was asking you when you will finish moping and go back out there. Who knows, perhaps next time a man will actually ignite some sparks into that iron wrought body of yours and show you what a good time is."

"I won't sleep with just anyone, I loved Ron!" she says, annoyed. "I'm not like you, I don't sleep around like a… like a slag!"

"Slags have fun. And you don't need love to get down and dirty."

"Men don't," she argues. "Women need the intimacy, that personal connection in order to be able to give themselves away and…"

She stops mid-sentence because he looks at her like she has gone bonkers, arms folded in front of his chest and eyebrows raised in exasperation.

"How the fuck are you so retrograde? Really, Granger, are you actually implying that women are below men, unable to orgasm, or even let a guy near them, if they don't swoon like thirteen years old girls beforehand?"

"What I meant," she replies, agitated, "is that, for me, it is very important to share a sense of well-cultivated familiarity and some deep feelings with a man, before we get to that part-"

"-you never got to that part, and boy, did you know Weasley for long! And you said women, not just you!"

"Well, yeah!" she argues, pulling the untamable hair out of her face. Merlin's beard, why is that, whenever she is his presence, everything that comes out of her mouth sounds like the arguments of a blithering idiot? "Well, yeah, I believe all women need to be in love just a little bit before they commit…"

"Was Patil in love?" he attacks. "Was she reciting poetry and calling him her soulmate while she was fucking Weasley right before your eyes?"

Her stomach clenches painfully and a gnawing ache rattles her heart. Malfoy sees this, pauses for a few seconds. When he speaks again, his tone is neutral, cool and clear:

"Why do people have sex, Granger?"

"Huh?"

"It's a simple question: why do you think people shag?"

"Erm… I… well, there's the matter of children." And then, to avoid the dangerous, narrowed eyes, she adds quickly "And, of course, it creates a bond between the partners and makes it so much special…"

"Merlin, stop, really, stop right there, I can't bear to hear this anymore," he says, waving his hands in front of her. "To get off, Granger," he billows, to her utmost dismay and shame. "People shag because they are desperate for a release, ready to worship that orgasm that short-circuits their brains. People fuck because it's pretty fucking great. Not because of a bond, but because they're selfish enough to claim that incredible dose of pleasure for themselves. And you're insane to think otherwise. What, have you never had an orgasm before?"

He thinks it's a rhetorical question, but he sees her withdraw into herself and has trouble collecting his jaw off the floor.

"No fucking way!" he whispers, horrified. She bites her lower lip and looks anxiously to her left and to her right, wanting to be anywhere else but there. "No fucking way!" he says again, louder this time and she cringes and fidgets with her fingers.

"We're here to work," she babbles. "We have a… meeting… in half of an hour. This… erm… conversation is highly improper," she says, her red nose now up in the air. "We need to focus on old Wizengamot cases. I'm off to lunch anyway."

She grabs her bag and practically runs out of the building. Draco is still rooted to the spot.

The situation is dire. Rowle, Lestrange and Rosier have attacked a family of Muggleborns, setting their house on fire. They cast the Dark Mark and killed their dogs. Luckily, the two spouses and their child have managed to floo elsewhere in time, but they are now homeless and scared out of their wits. The Aurors don't have a lead yet and Hermione spends her days looking over the three Death Eaters's Wizengamot cases, trying to see if something escaped her. Malfoy's out on an errand, somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry, and she has time to think clearly without feeling him breathing down her neck.

This is it, this is why she has joined the Law Department, to fight for the rights of those abused and to stifle prejudices. Not to have highly indecent conversations about sex with her former archenemy. He treats it all so flippantly anyway, drilling her with questions like it's the most normal thing to do, and not a huge oddity that disrupts her quiet life.

And he touches her. Intentionally, she has learned, despite his efforts to mask it. He bends to retrieve some file or another while she reaches for it too, making sure their fingers brush. He comes from behind whenever she's hunched over a parchment, hovering like a bird of prey until she can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand. Sometimes, he's even more blatant, shamelessly reaching for an exposed calf or collarbone like it's the most natural thing to do.

She gets so shocked by his brazen ways that she doesn't even reprove him most of the times. It is only later that she realizes it's an unacceptable behavior. But what puzzles her the most about these interactions is that she ought to be afraid, but she isn't. He's crossing boundaries – this is certainly not standard work behavior, and barges in her personal space with total disregard for norms, yet, she hasn't once feel threatened by his touches.

His words on the other hand… Nasty weapons of mass destruction.

She is startled from her reverie by a knock on the door. The person on the other side lets himself in without waiting an answer and Hermione comes face to face with the cheery figure of Cormac McLaggen, current employee in the Department of Magical International Cooperation.

"Hermione, my darling!" he starts, as a way of greeting. "A wonderful rumor has it you're single again."

Very smooth, that McLaggen. And oh, so subtle too.

"Who has been spreading rumors about me, Cormac? And please tell me why you're encouraging it," she replies tartly, hoping to get rid of him fast.

"Darling, far from me the thought to cause you pain," he says and she cringes at the ceremony in his voice. "However, were you single indeed, it would make me the happiest man in the world!" he declares with emphasis.

Hermione eyes the exit only to remind herself she is the rightful owner of that place and him, the intruder. Wait, is he staring at her chest?

She takes a file from Malfoy's book, surprised to see how it easy it comes to her.

"Are you saying my loneliness makes you happy?"

He is taken aback, his small eyes narrowing, his hands stilling at his side. Then, to her dismay, he comes closer, oh, way too close to comfort. Honestly, didn't anyone teach men about personal space?

"My deepest apologies," he starts ceremoniously and it's an incredible effort for her not to roll her eyes. "But, Hermione, I, being the discreet gentleman that I am, kept my thoughts to myself. However, you already know I've held you in the highest regard and I was always convinced we are a better match than you and Ron. I mean, you'd look much better on the arm of a dashing, promising young fellow like me than on the arm of… don't mind me saying, Hermione, a Weasley!"

She is going to crack his head with a stone. Throw the paper weight from her desk right at his skull, or better yet, batter him with it until that treacherous tongue is rendered speechless. The nerve of the man!

"There's nothing wrong with being a Weasley," she says, barely containing her anger. "Most of my friends are Weasleys!" she adds in a low tone, hoping he'll get the message.

He doesn't.

"Why, of course, you're loyal to them and all that. But as you and Ron broke up I don't see why we're still invested in a conversation about _them_. I came here for a wonderful reason: to invite you to go out with me tonight. I already took the liberty" _– God, no, don't take any more liberties_ – "to reserve a table at one of the best restaurants in town, that just happens to be owned by my esteemed uncle Tilius McLaggen. Have you heard about uncle Tilius? He's only the greatest businessman ever. And he is also the best robes maker in town. We could get you there first thing tomorrow. He could change your whole life, Hermione, I'm telling you! Save you from these coveralls you're wearing and get you something fit and proper for a sexy young witch like you."

She is so angry she thinks her face has become the color of a police car alarm. She clenches her fingers together to stop them from lurching forward and clasp around his stupid neck.

"Well, we can solve all this tomorrow," he says, rearranging the hems of shirt, not sparing a look in her direction, as his own grooming is suddenly much more important. "Now I'm just waiting patiently for you to tell me what time should I pick you up tonight? Six would work for me personally. I have something to finish tonight, but I'm sure they won't mind me leaving earlier if I tell them I'm taking Hermione Granger out for dinner," he says with a wink.

She is so dumbfounded by his bigheaded stupidity that she simply can't answer. She sits there, with her mouth open, staring with wide open eyes and wondering where did society go wrong to produce someone like him.

"You should know you're a very lucky girl, Hermione," he says the very next second, bending towards her desk with a conspiratorial gaze. "There are, and I am not exaggerating, about ten girls in my department that are simply fawning over me, but I have eyes for you only. Just how lucky you are, Hermione?!"

It's simply too much to bare.

"I'mnotgoingoutwithyou!" she yells and grips her desk to stop her hands from hurting him, because there is a mad twitch in her right arm to hex him into the next century.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't have heard you right," he says and furrows his brows. "What was it you were saying?"

Malfoy chooses that exact moment to barge in.

"You can pick me up at six," she says automatically.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Malfoy stopping dead in his tracks.

"Splendid," McLaggen says and actually leans in to give her a loud, unwanted smooch on her lips. "Wear something sexy!"

Hermione feels so violated she thinks she'll vomit.

Cormac saunters out of the room whistling to himself.

Malfoy has regained his ability to move and uses it to disappear from her view.

 _This is bad. This is very bad._

She is downing her second glass of rosé wine, but it is not enough distraction from his brain dismantling attempts to make conversation. He leans across the table, almost sinking his elbow into the sauce dip, with what he most certainly considers a smoldering gaze, but it's actually a look so irritating she wants to gauge his eyes out. His wondering hands are restless on the table and they always inch for her breasts. She has been stupid enough to wear the dark green dress – the only sexy thing that she owns – and he is now looking at her like she's as edible at the food laid before them. He makes innuendoes: there goes another gulp of wine, before her bile rises again.

The restaurant décor looks way too tacky and his uncle is the size of a huge wardrobe. Tilius McLaggen and his jet black, curved mustache, have already stopped by their table twice, to recite a monologue about his business savvy ways. On top of all this, Cormac has actually, yes, he has actually opened the top two buttons of his shirt and, every five minutes sharp, he "accidentally" caresses the exposed skin.

The self-restraint she has not to strangle him!

And then, he winks! He winks so much she thinks he has a faulty eyelid.

He invites her to dance on the small floor where a bunch of couples sway to weird sounding music. The band playing looks bored beyond their wits and she doesn't trust herself walking on heels. But it's his proximity that puts her off, the thought of their bodies touching alone inducing a fear the strongest fear to leave her place. She wonders what it would feel like to kiss him and is confronted with a very disturbing sensorial image: sloppy, wet lips claiming hers hungrily, groping hands exploring without an invitation, her dress being pushed aside without consent.

"I have been taking ballroom dances since I was eight," he brags. "I am an excellent dancer, Hermione, come on, let me teach you!" he says. Then, before getting an answer, he stands and pulls her up to him.

Then something horrible changes everything, an electricity in the air that she connects with incredibly strong and dark magic. A flash of red light passes barely an inch from her ear and lands on the wall behind him, tearing a hole in a portrait.

"Down," she yells as he barely registers what happens.

A couple of voices yell in panic, as more flashes of light hit the walls and the tables, upending them. The curses are so powerful that some of the tables and chairs splinter from the sheer force and their remains are piercing the skins of the present ones.

The yells become more desperate and people are rushing towards the exit or waving their wands around, mumbling incoherent curses. Some, simply cry out in panic. Out of the corner of her eyes, Hermione sees hooded figures flying diagonally on brooms, their wands pointed angrily at each living person: everyone is a target.

 _Death Eaters_.

The never forgotten, war acquired reflexes kick in and Hermione scans the room desperately, her fingers clenching around her wand. Being seated in the VIP section gives her the advantage of looking the room from a higher point, but they are also an easy target. With a flick of her wand she pushes a stunned Cormac beneath a couch in the corner and out from view. His eyes are glassy and his mouth is open like he is the victim of a horrible trance. She forces herself to look away, then she disposes of her shoes and ducks beneath her now overturned table: from the temporary hideout she casts a Patronus and sends it to the Auror department. Breathing in, she watches her otter disappear around the corner but she has only a moment to herself, as another ray of red light grazes her shoulder; it scorches her skin and ends up hitting the wall ahead of her. Hermione rolls to the left, behind a chair and casts a powerful "Stupefy". She knows it has hit its target because she hears a body crashing into the wall, but another hooded figure looms closer and her next spell misses its target.

There's dust everywhere and it makes clear sighting next to impossible. Still, she thinks she can make out about six hooded figures.

Six! And only three Death Eaters have managed to escape Azkaban! Where did the rest came from?

She doesn't have much time to ponder over it, because a wave of blue light barely misses her. She hears someone casting a Protego and only then does she notice she's not the only one retaliating. An old couple, white haired and dead set on fighting back, casts one spell after the other, battling three Death Eaters at the same time. In a corner, Tilius McLaggen kneels and cries before a laughing Death Eater that curses him repeatedly. She can see the puffy man begging for his life, but there's no time to jump to his defense as she blocks another curse from an irate Death Eater. They duel fast, spells flying from both their wands at the same pace and Hermione tries not to panic, because she knows that will be the end of her. Her muscles hurt from rolling on the dirty, splinter littered floor, and there is a crick in her neck and a few burns on her skin. She hears cries of pain and manic laughter and did the earth shook?

"Reducto!" she shouts at the bar, and the spells demolishes it, trapping the Death Eater under the debris.

She casts two Stupefys at the back of two of the Death Eaters attacking the old couple and they quickly bind and silence the third.

It only takes a second of distraction. The curse hits her right in the back: she is thrown across the room and she screams when she hits the floor, face-first. She hears a crack in her own jaw, then feels a brain splitting pain, right before she tastes blood. She tries to raise her head but the boot clad foot of a Death Eater pushes it back down. She looks for her wand desperately and sees it a couple of feet ahead of her, out of reach and lost in the dust and the debris.

"This is the filthy Mudblood whore, isn't it?" the crass voice of the Death Eater rings in her ears. She forces to keep her eyes open and notices a group of terrified witches and wizard watching her aghast. They are all on the floor, kneeling, their wands taken from them, their spirits crushed. The pain on her skull in all-consuming.

"Yeah, must be the mudblood Granger," another one answers and she hears him coming closer. "Move aside, let me have a look," he says and she feels the leather boot move as she is violently rolled on her back and comes to face another masked and hooded figure. The new guy spits on her. "Dirty little cunt," he spats and kicks her in the stomach for good measure.

"Mudbloods and Blood Traitors," the first Death Eater says scathingly. "Just wait and see what's coming to them. To this stupid bitch here and the likes of Weasleys, McLaggens and Malfoys."

"Let's finish her now. Let's see how Potter feels about it," the second one goads and Hermione grits her teeth, bracing herself for the worst.

 _I am about to die_.

She thinks of her childhood and the love she has for her parents. She thinks of her friends, sees Harry's alert green eyes and Ginny's mane of red hair, she remembers the warm embraces of Luna and Neville's quirky laugh, and all the wonderful days she has spent at Hogwarts. She aches for one last kiss with Ron, despite everything, and then it all blurs to one single, clear image of… Draco Malfoy?

She doesn't have time to question her sanity as one of the Death Eaters is hit with a Stupefy and the other one is stunned. Cormac's eye are wide with fear and anger and he moves erratically, stumbling at every step, but very much alive and alert. Hermione regains her wits and crawls to where her wand is, exhaling with relief when she feels the surge of magic warming her blood. She clambers to her feet and feels much better condition that she expects it. She sees the old man fall to his knees and she casts a quick Protego in his direction. Afterwards, she angrily takes down the woman's attacker.

She is aware of Cormac standing very close to her, fumbling with wand as he walks with unsure steps now. His eyes move rapidly, from left to right and he casts one clumsy spell after another at first, but then, when he sees the three of them fighting steadily, he corrects himself. Hermione breathes out in relief when she sees him aiming correctly again and slashing the mask of a Death Eater: the wounded figure of Rowle emerges screaming and when Cormac hears his uncle Tilius cry at the reveal, he aims again and stuns the Death Eater immediately.

Two dozen Aurors fly in on their brooms, from every nook and corner of the almost demolished restaurant and they lash themselves at the Death Eaters. Hermione sees Harry and Ron aiming with confidence, skillfully swerving to avoid curses. The Aurors form a circle around most of the Death Eaters, however, two of them Disappear right before they are reached. Hermione realizes, with a look of pure shock, that eight Death Eaters are stunned now. So they must have been at least ten of them, responsible for the hell she has just been part of. As soon as she knows that she is safe, she runs to the side of the old couple, checking to see if they need help. They are alright, wrapped in each other's arms and thanking her silently. Next, she kneels close to a hurt Cormac: he squeezes her hand when he feels its warmth, but refuses to look at her. He is sitting next to his uncle Tilius and the old man is sobbing about his restaurant, now in ruins, hiccupping from the strain of crying and speaking in the same time. He still doesn't seem to realize that he's out of harm's way. He holds on to his nephew tight and the only thing he seems capable of after a while is repeating the same damned word. War, war, war. War.

Cormac ignores her afterwards and, on his face, there is the look of a man who has lost his path.

"Mione, Mione!" Ron shouts and she is engulfed into a bone-cracking hug that she doesn't have the power to shake off.

It's incredibly good to inhale his scent, to feel those strong arms enveloping her. She lets herself be cradled in his arms, lets her bones relax as he murmurs soothing words into her ear and nuzzles her neck. The effect lasts for a minute only, until something feels amiss, the same way one feels after he leaves the house and has forgot whether he has locked the front door or not. She pushes him away with an apologetic smile, only to find herself engulfed in a fierce hug again, Harry's familiar arms finding their blessed way around her shoulders.

"Are you alright? We thought we lost our minds when we received your Patronus! Are you hurt? We'll take you to St. Mungo's!" he rushes out.

She shakes her head. It doesn't hurt that bad. She doesn't want to go to a hospital. She wants to go home. But then she remembers.

"They are in danger. All Muggleborns and Pureblood families too." Then she turns to Ron, murmuring apologetically. "Your family is in danger. Cormac's too, I heard them talking." Then she hesitates: "Malfoy's family too. He is on their blacklist as well. I better go warn him."

"Now?" Ron shouts, making everybody's eyes turn to them. They are already jumpy enough from the events so any sudden movement or sound causes them to grip their wands in fear. She's angry again and it fuels her next speech.

"Yes, now, Ron, the Aurors managed to lose not one, but two Death Eater so, if you'll excuse me, I'll go save someone's life, before they end up in a graveyard."

"Hermione," Harry tries gently, "you are hurt. I'll be sure to send someone to the Malfoy Manor, I'll go personally if I have to. I am just worried for you, that's all."

"I am alright," she says, gentler now, because she knows they both mean well. "But I work with Malfoy, and I feel like it's my duty to warn him. I don't want to feel like I've survived this night for nothing."

Harry means to argue, but holds his tongue, while Ron only stares at her, flabbergasted. She dreads the next question so she stares around her for a bit, stalling.

"Are there… I mean, they shouldn't be, as far as I could tell they didn't aim to kill this time, but… Oh, Harry, do you think there are any casualties?"

Harry studies the space around him, sees the few people fallen to the floor, wincing in pain, sees the gifted Healers from St. Mungo tending to the wounded and gestures to one of them. It's a young girl with a stoic face and a fast step and she is by his side in an instant.

"Please check on Hermione here, despite her protests," he directs her and challenges Hermione to oppose him with a stern face. Then, when she allows to be taken care of, he softens a little. "We won't know until tomorrow I'm afraid. Let's just hope for the best."

Reluctantly, he leaves her side and walks to his team. Ron stalls, stares at her, tries to take her hand and is denied and finally, with a pained sigh, walks away too. The minute they both have their back turned, Hermione Accios her purse, thanks the witch that tends to her and leaves the damned restaurant and its rubble.

The minute she steps outside she's drenched. It's raining cats and dogs and the cold, greedy water feels like a blessing against her aching skin and torn clothes. She walks on poodles with a limp, dips her bare feet in cold water, and breathes in with gusto. One of her knees hurt, despite the potion she has been given and she is sure to have an ugly bruise on her jaw, or perhaps a scar. She doesn't mind.

 _I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive!_

She Apparates on a chic London street, in the Magical area, taking in the peaceful surroundings. This is a corner of the world that looks like nothing will ever damage it, the tall linden trees silent guardians of the peace, the exquisite design of the buildings, a statement in itself. She searches the residential buildings, until she finds number twenty-three.

She knows he lives there, because he works for her and there is nothing on his file that she doesn't know by heart. She hasn't been granted Floo privileges, there had been no need for that yet, so she hopes that she can just walk to his door and knock. For some reason, she is granted access into the courtyard of the three stories building and, despite her protesting knee, climbs the stairs until the last floor. There is just one apartment there and she braces herself for the conversation, knocking hard.

Malfoy opens it much too soon and she finds a black wand pointed at her already bruised neck, while she meets a pair of steely, worried eyes that focus hard on her. She is startled by his appearance too: shirtless, barefooted and armed.

"Granger," he concedes, but does not lower his wand. "What happened?" he questions and his eyes move rapidly now, taking in her tattered appearance and bruised self. "What the hell happened?" he demands.

There is water dripping from her weak form into the plush, welcoming mat outside his door, drenching it. Cold droplets cover her face, slide from her wet hair and clothes, forming a small pool at her feet. The more he watches her, the more worried his expression becomes.

"I've come to warn you," she says and her jaw hurts with every word she says. "Death Eaters are on the loose. They attacked the restaurant I was in, they hurt people."

"Jesus Fucking Christ!" he mutters, lowering his wand at last. He finally pushes her inside, ushering her in unceremoniously and she winces in pain. "Why the hell aren't you in St. Mungo's? Where the fuck was McLaggen?" he rushes, analyzing her further, moving fast around her to stare at every nook and cranny of her form.

"No, no, I'm fine," she manages, although she feels like she's about to faint now. As if, once she has reached her destination, all strength has deserted her. The combat reflexes are dormant once more and she can feel the adrenaline leaving her now, replaced by a wicked tiredness that has her almost slurring her words. "It's you I'm worried about. I heard the Death Eaters threaten your family, you must warn them," she insists.

He is fast. One moment he's next to her and in the next instant he's gone from the room and she can hears him calling out loud "Malfoy Manor", in what she thinks is the fireplace. He must have Floo-ed to his childhood home.

Her legs give in and she crashes on the thing closest to her, a dark brown Chesterfield sofa, trying not to think about the damage her drenched form will cause to it. It feels warm and comfy beneath her and she grips the edge, just because she is a little dizzy now and, and alone on top of that: she must not faint in Draco Malfoy's apartment.

To remain aware, she strains her head to take in her surroundings. The apartment is dimly lit, an old lamp flickering in a corner, but she can still distinguish a wall sized library that has her heart thumping in her chest. She quickly scans the titles, straining to read them properly and is overjoyed when she finds some of her favorites and then few more that she has been meaning to read. Does Draco Malfoy burrow books to other people?

No, perhaps not.

She tears her eyes away from the library and takes in the beautiful living room, so tastefully decorated that she has never felt more out of place in her life.

A small House Elf appears at her side with the quietest of "pop", carrying a tray with a warm cup of tea and two vials of brightly colored potions.

"I is Dinnie, Miss," the high-pitched voice declares cheerfully. "I come from Malfoy Manor. Master Draco ordered me to give you this fortifying tea and these healing potions until he comes back. Please, Miss, will you take them? I have orders not to leave your side until this happens."

She studies the small creature. It doesn't wear tattered cloth, but a deep blue uniform. She – it must be a she, right? - looks clean and well-rested, if only a little eager and fearful. Hermione wants to complain against the high-handed manners, against the whole use of Elves as House-Elves, but the one sitting next to her doesn't look worn out or abused. And she is grateful he has thought of her, honestly, perhaps she deserves it after coming personally to warn him of the danger his family is in. Or perhaps she isn't thinking straight.

Either way, she takes the vials and savors the tea, its warmth spreading fast through her shivering, cold body. The House Elf yelps when droplets of icy water fall on her skin, but before Hermione can apologize, the creature speaks again.

"May I… can I… Miss, would you do me the honor of letting me use a charm to dry you? Excuse me for being so brazen, Miss, I apologizes terribly so, but I must says it, you are all wet and it is not healthy. Please, Miss!"

"Yes, Dinnie," she answers with a weak smile and the Elf beams, snapping her slim fingers. Hermione is dry in an instant and she pats her mane of now extremely frizzy hair and then touches all the bruises and aching parts of her body.

The creature stutters again.

"Miss, may I, can I, would it be possible to heal you properly?"

"That's enough, Dinnie, you can go back now," Draco Malfoy says, materializing right next to them. The Elf takes a bow and then it's gone and Hermione is left in his domineering presence, facing a pair of angry eyes.

Perhaps, she has outstayed her welcome? She takes one last sip of the truly exquisite tea and then stands to leave. However, she makes the mistake of supporting herself on the aching leg, the one with the wounded knee: she almost tumbles to the floor, spilling tea on her. He catches her right before she hits the floor, strong arms wrapping around her waist and shoulders, lifting her up to her full height, which is still one head shorter than his.

It hurts even more, stings furiously really and she feels the tears of pain filling up her eyes.

"My leg," she breathes. "My knee…" it's all he manages.

In the next instant he has lifted her up like a groom lifts his bride when he wants to cross over the threshold of their new home and she is carefully laid on the sofa. He moves an armchair right next to her bed and sits on it. When she manages to calm herself down and to ignore the waves of pain washing over her just a little, she is scared by the intense, furious gaze that he directs at her.

"I'll go in an instant, I promise," she whispers, feeling stupid for lingering and a bit angry too. Honestly, she has come to warn him, does he have to be so crass as to want her Mudblood self out of his house right away?

"Don't be stupid, Granger! The only place you're going after this is St. Mungo's and only after I decide you're steady enough for the trip. Don't you fucking dare to move an inch!"

She means to protest, but she's a little dazed by the pain and the determination in his voice.

"What were you thinking?" he grits, barely containing his anger. "Coming all the way here in the state that you are? It's a wonder you're still conscious at this point. Alive even!"

"I came to warn you, you ungrateful prat," she tries, but she sounds ridiculous, not threatening in the least.

 _Bugger!_

"You could have sent someone else. One of those fumbling idiots called Aurors. A fucking owl, Granger, have you heard of those?"

"It might have been too late," she protests. "They were about to attack your family next and I…"

"And you were the usual, self-sacrificing bint, ready to blast herself if it means one other poor idiot can live on. You fucking Gryffindors and your idiotic gestures," he spits, clenching his fists. "Brains, Granger, weren't you supposed to have them? A meek sense of self-preservation at least, to tell you not to wander off when you're wounded."

"But I…"

"What if some of them were already here, what then? You would have walked yourself into a death trap and I would have shouted at your corpse now!"

"Then," she sputters, "they could be outside now," she breathes out, panicked.

He laughs cruelly.

"They could have been, indeed. But just about now I have Weasley and another useless Auror stationed downstairs, pretending to guard the place. You've been followed by the way, I think that idiot ex-boyfriend of yours might be a stalker."

Her cheeks color, but she feels relieved now. She is ashamed for Ron's behavior, but indulges in a moment of silence and closes her eyes for a few blissful moments: she is safe now.

She hears him moving, shuffling in and out of a door and then he is at her side again, peering at her curiously from beneath a pair of lashes that are way too long and curly for a man.

"I need you to sit up a bit," he says, sounding neutral.

She sits on her bottom and leans her back into the welcoming softness of the sofa. Malfoy has an open jar on the small table next to him and then he dips two fingers into it, squats next to her and applies the balm onto her aching knee.

She is startled by his touch and jerks away at first. Malfoy scowls at her and his other hand clasps around her calf, keeping her in place. His right hand rubs the balm on her kneecap, and the throbbing pain dulls from the first layer. He applies it by rubbing soothing circles on her knee, his skilled fingers working patiently, his gaze focused on this task alone.

She watches curiously, especially since, at some point, she cannot determine when exactly, his touch has become a pleasant new experience. His fingers rub continuously and so gently that she bites her lip to stifle a small moan of pleasure.

"That's enough," she croaks. "My knee feels better," she adds when his dark, disbelieving gaze focuses on her face. She unconsciously tries to smoothen her hair with her fingers, but they only end up tangled in it.

His fingers hitch her dress up and she jolts away.

"You have a nasty cut here," he says as a way of justification and she eyes a mauve, irregular splash on her thigh. His fingers dip into a second pot of balm, that she only now notices, and then they lash at the cold skin, the thumb rubbing soothing circles around it.

His warm hands feels hot against her bruised, icy one and she finds herself gripping the edge of the sofa for balance, because he parts her legs away for better access. She fights him, snapping them shut again, but he scowls and parts them away again with not even a look at her.

 _He can see my knickers, he can see my knickers._

"Do you want a fucking ugly bruise to remind you of this night, Granger?" he drawls and she mutters a disgruntled no.

But, Lord, he is so close to her core now that she cannot help but wiggle under his touches, fearing his long fingers might just slip and touch her… there. She is already tingly and drowsy from the potions and his touches and now he is way too close for comfort. And she is dirty and hurt and looks down at a fully grown, quite threatening and shirtless male whose hands work their way on her skin, closer to her private parts than any other man had been. If his hands slips and touch her... Oh, Merlin, she is going to die from shame!

But there's something else too. It just might be from the hot and cold shivers that course through her, but she feels her breasts heavy, nipples erect, so hard that if she hadn't been wearing a backless bra she thinks her nipples would cut through the silky fabric of her dress. And it might be a side-effect of the potions, but she is not entirely comfortable with the sheen of sweat that starts to cover her skin, nor with the pulsating heat that emerges from beneath her skin, stronger and most vibrant in places where his hands touch her. She can't trust herself anymore.

He moves quickly and the next thing she knows he is sitting next to her, analyzing her curiously and there is something dark in his gaze that frightens her a little.

"Take off your dress, Granger."

The breath hitches in her throat and she cowers under his intense gaze. The tension is cackling, building up both between them and in her belly, until it cracks under his irritated voice.

"I can't see shit through your torn, flimsy dress and seeing just how well the person who patched you up did, you just might end up dead by the morning. Now, take it off."

She shakes her head stubbornly, but he has no patience tonight. She doesn't actually manage to put off a real fight before he grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it up and over her head in seconds. She falls back on the sofa and covers herself with her hands, cold and too ashamed to look at him. When she manages to gather just a bit of courage and stare back defiantly, she notices him staring at her bra. His fingers even inch up to the side of it, to where the silk green band is seemingly glued to her skin.

"How does this thing work?" he says to her vexed face, pointing towards her bra with a childish, curious expression.

"Erm… it's a Muggle thing. It has a special glue that allows it to stick to the skin, so it can be worn with a backless dress," she recites as if it were her Hogwarts homework.

He nods shortly and guides her to sit on her knees, with her back to him. Next, his fingers latch on to the skin of her bare back, having previously identified a nasty gash there that she hadn't even been aware of. The balm tingles her pleasantly, but, under the touch of his fingers, her breath gets uneven again. She wills herself to be still, but her treacherous body actually wants to lean in to him, to feel his hands flatten out against her back. She is glad she can't see his naked chest anymore because it's a bit easier to fight the instinct to touch him, to let her hands roam over him, to pinch his nipples… _Wait, what?_

She brings her hand to her mouth, actually slapping herself in the process.

"What?" Malfoy mumbles somewhat groggily, his lips so close to her back that his voice causes a small vibration on her skin.

"Nothing," she replies quickly.

Despite herself, she pictures him behind her back, his brows furrowed in concentration, his hands working on her, slowly, leisurely and she shifts in her place, becoming aware of a certain dampness in her knickers. Her cheeks acquire a shade of flaming red and there is a fever bubbling up, overtaking her senses.

Just then, he turns her around, strong arms easily pulling her kneeling form around and Hermione thinks she's going to faint from the proximity. It's as if only now she notices his rich scent, the exact color of his skin and nipples and…

She presses her eyes shut firmly to silence her thoughts. She is unaware that, from outside, she looks like a squirming kid who thinks that, just because she has closed her eyes and cannot see anyone, the world outside cannot see her either. Malfoy doesn't say a thing, too focused on a bruise right below her right breast. She listens to every sound, registering every movement, her senses heightened now. Her skins gets comfortable, her body leans in to his touch and she has this distinct urge to guide his hand to either of her breasts. She wants to take a hold of him, to grab him and bring their bodies together.

There is a different ache inside her now, that urgent need to touch him and, to quench it, she squirms uncontrollably and bites her lip or smoothens her hair, until he grabs her shoulders and says out loud:

"For fuck's sake, Granger, for fuck's sake, don't move!"

His voice sounds tortured somehow and she opens confused eyes to find his chest rising and falling rapidly, his labored breathing on her face as eyes that are way too dark for comfort, bore into hers. But instead of listening to him, she welcomes the pressure of his palms on her shoulders, their warm shelter and, when he squeezes tentatively, she lets out the smallest of moans. His eyes widen dangerously so she investigates the dilated pupils for a bit, before her eyes roam freely on his chest and shoulders. An overpowering urge takes hold of her and there is a wetness between her legs that she cannot bear. When one of his hands liberates her shoulder and lightly grazes her collarbone she leaps forward, clasps her arms around his head and kisses him as if her whole life depends on it.

That is a blazing heat, the one that she succumbs to, a self-awakening desire that overrules her brain and demands fulfillment. A moment ripped from the time itself that belongs to them only.

Malfoy responds instantly and his teeth sink into her lower lip, his hands grab full strands of bushy hair and his chest collides with hers. He sucks the same lip hungrily, then licks it and Hermione is so invested in their kiss than she doesn't hear her own moan. She moves her mouth against his, tasting ambrosia and reveling in their fullness of his lips. When he sneaks his tongue inside her mouth she welcomes it without hesitation. The movement of his tongue against her is so tantalizing that she think she can faint from that pleasure alone and she lets herself be spoiled by it minutes at an end. She doesn't care about anything else in the world but this glorious moment, the exhilarating kiss that makes her feel drunk with happiness and desire.

In the heat of the moment she leans further into him and they both tumble down on the sofa, with her on top. Still in a blissful haze, she moves reflexively until her wet crotch is rubbing on his hardened member and she is rewarded with a long, loud moan. Malfoy's hands grip her strongly and when she rubs herself on his crotch again, she thinks she can explode from all that pleasure.

 **A/N: Oh, boy,oh, boy! I hope you enjoyed this one, it sure was fun to write. Let me know what you think!**


	6. An Education

**A/N: A short explanation. I know that many of you are confused as to why Hermione is so reluctant to embrace her own sexuality or why does she shy away from having intercourse. Someone has suggested that she might have experienced a sexual drama in her childhood. However, I think this scenario is highly improbable, because here is a girl who spends most of her time with two boys and they are her closest friends. On the other hand, I still know people in their twenties who just won't have sex yet. They are not asexual, nor they exhibit some special behavior, it's just that they haven't found the right person to make them comfortable enough for sex to happen. For some of us, our first time matters, hence the people who wait until marriage. For others, sex is a wonderful thing that happens with many partners in great doses.** **J** **I believe this is great too. So I don't see the Hermione I've portrayed here as abnormal or weird. I only believe there hasn't been anyone to turn her on bad enough for her to wish to have sex. Well, until now at least, so I hope you enjoy the lines and explanations below. I do believe in sexual awakening. What do you think about being a virgin in your twenties, by the way? Let me know in the comments and have fun! ;)**

 _This is heaven._

That's all her brain tells her and she grinds on his body, thrilled by the contact of skin on skin. Despite the overpowering fever that makes her movements sloppy, Malfoy has a strong hold on her, determined to keep her in place. As if she would ever let go of such ecstasy like the one she is experiencing now. It's all new and marvelous and she doesn't pause to wonder what exactly it is they are doing, too keen on staying in this precise moment forever. It's like small explosions occur along the length of her body and when he switches them around, lying on top of her, she doesn't feel trapped, welcoming his weight by running her hands along his shoulder blades. The gesture causes him to shiver and he leaves her mouth to breathe for a moment, as if it's all too much for him. It rests on the crook of her neck instead and hot puffs of breath linger on her sensitive skin. She is blissful, but he sounds like he's fighting a terrible battle, one hand cupping her bra clad breast, the other pulling her knee up to hook around his hip. She arches her back at the contact and he lashes at her mouth again, to her utmost delight.

She holds him tight, tighter than anyone else, because she has never experienced something so out of this world. Then, hungry to explore, her hands sneaks up between them to flatten out on his chest. It is a huge mistake because he thinks she's pushing him from her quivering form.

Wrenching himself away from her body with an almost violent gesture, he stares at her thunderstruck, then jumps on his feet as if she had burned him.

"Fuck, Granger," he says in a small voice, pulling his fingers through his hair and already pacing around the room. "I'm such a fucking idiot!" he lets out. "Fuck, this got way out of hands."

She is confused and cold now. Dizzy when she tries to sit up. It's a moment only before the feelings of rejection kick in, but then he speaks again.

"Must be all those potions. I haven't given them to anyone in years but I saw you on the verge of fainting and I might have overdosed you. Fucking shit, I didn't mean to pound on you like that!"

He sounds troubled, pained. Hermione scans his face, but her brain is too foggy to actual form coherent sentences. She only knows that she wants his warmth on top of hers again.

"Overdose?" she whispers.

"Clearly," he nods vigorously. "It's messing with your brain. Fuck, fuck, I should have known," he yells to himself. "Come on, get dressed. We'll get you to St. Mungo in a minute, right?

She doesn't even have the strength to protest this time. Actually, she is asleep right before he finishes pulling the dress back on her.

For the next days, he avoids her like the plague. Even Cormac has come around to offer some sort of apology, but more like a humble brag for his heroic acts.

"Just how brave was I, Hermione?" he gushes only half convinced of what he's saying. And oh, will she want a redo of their dinner maybe? No, she has had enough, she thinks to herself, but refuses him more politely.

Malfoy on the other hand speaks to her strictly about work matters. No more teasing or taunting, no more inappropriate conversations and certainly no more touching.

She resents the last part. She thinks she's crazy, but she resents the last part.

She has woken up in a hospital bed with friends and Healers fawning over her. Which she did not need, thank you very much, for it turned out he had done a wonderful job of fixing her up. It didn't save her the eulogistic article in The Daily Prophet though: the newspaper spared no ink, publishing a detailed –and exaggerated - account of her acts, hailing her the hero of the day. She has spent most of that first day dodging photographers and reporters, speaking only to her friends and the Aurors.

When she arrived in the office, two days after that, Malfoy took one long look at her form, said the shortest of greetings and then resumed his work as if she wasn't even in the room. Not only that, but, from that moment forward, he barely acknowledged her presence, ignored every attempt at a decent conversation that she initiated and has taken any chance to be outside the office.

It befuddles her. This is a man who has been hinting at getting in her pants from the first moment he returned and when it actually comes close to have his wish fulfilled, he balks out.

She thinks she should be ashamed, but she isn't. High on painkillers or not, the experience has been unlike anything she had felt before. Late at night, when she lays in her bed, she remembers that powerful hunger that overtook her, the need for his body. She imagines his hands travelling all over her, eliciting wonderful sensations from her sensitive flesh.

How can it possible? How has she spent three years with Ron, lived in the same apartment with him, slept next to him for so many nights without ever feeling the need to pounce on him the way she did with Malfoy? If that had been indeed an overdose then the effects must be lingering because she feels this high most of the time. She wants it to happen again. She wants to go until the end this time and it frightens her as much as it arouses her.

How can it be possible?

The world goes on as before. The clock ticks, the pages of her books are turned, the work is done on time. And yet, when she's all alone in her room, in the apartment she has moved to alone, she feels a detachment from the outside world that is unequivocal, complete. It is in those moments that she wishes he was there with her. She has this insatiable desire to cross an imaginary finish line, to learn how it feels like to get lost inside a sensation so thrilling it makes her heart thump wildly only when thinking about it.

How indecent, she tells herself. How utterly and completely bizarre and shameful and immoral, she chastises herself half-heartedly.

And how thrilling.

Hermione looks at the glass of white wine on her kitchen table, stares at the rainy evening outside and thinks she is a cliché from the Muggle movies she usually watches. A late virgin who drinks wine by herself on a Tuesday evening because she is utterly alone. The guy who was supposed to marry her slept with one of their friends and they guy who wanted to sleep with her avoids her at any cost. But she's not stupid enough to even consider Draco Malfoy does not want to have sex with her.

What would it be like then? To lose her virginity to him? To give herself to him just like that, no emotions involved, clean and medical just like he suggested it can be like. A physical need. How it would be to break every rule she has set and just go with the flow? Would she feel used the next day? Or elated?

Can she bare to be just another one of his partners? She thinks of the beautiful Ginevra, her elegant posture, her charming laugh. Her curves. Then she looks at herself in the mirror. How can she compare to that woman? But Malfoy looked like he knew what he was doing. More than that, he looked like he was enjoying himself tremendously. Perhaps a warm female body is a warm female body and that is enough. Oh, she might have been under the influence of the night's events, but his head had been clear, his desire obvious.

And for the first time in a long while, Hermione feels powerful.

She walks the halls of the Ministry without paying attention to her surroundings, studying her papers, the fresh notes jutted down during the meeting she just had. It's not until she actually arrives at the bustling canteen that she notices the blonde woman chatting happily with some of her peers.

Ginevra's eyes shoot up and Hermione looks away, embarrassed. Despite Malfoy's assertion that they are not in an actual relationship, Hermione feels a bit like the other woman now. She tries to make herself invisible so she is quite startled when the woman emerges to block her way and extends an open hand.

"Ginevra Keens," she says, exuding the overpowering air of confidence that people who come from money display. "It is about high time we met," she adds in a clipped voice and Hermione fears the woman's proud eyes already know all her secrets. Did Malfoy already tell her?

"It's quite an honor," Ginevra adds quickly. "I have admired for you quite a while, Miss Granger."

 _Miss Granger?_

"Actually," she says, taking her arm. "I have been asking Draco to introduce us, but you might know how stubborn. Ah, I hope you won't take my words as an excuse to make life harder for him, he really isn't all those wretched things I've heard people say behind his back. Tell me, would you mind having lunch with me?" she adds and stares her right in the eyes, rendering her speechless for a second.

"Of course, but I don't know how I can be of any help to you."

"Ah, can't you just have a quiet lunch with one of your admirers?" Ginevra muses and she has already picked a table. Hermione notices the way wizards stare at her, almost as if they are compelled to do it. It strikes her that…

"Excuse me, are you part Veela by any chance?"

"Quarter Veela, from my father's side. My mother's actually a Muggle," Ginevra offers as if it's no big deal. "Well spotted, although really, I prefer to be referred by my brains, and not by looks or charm I hold over men."

It's a jab coated heavily in honey, for Ginevra's voice is smooth, but there is a coldness in her blue eyes that Hermione cannot shake.

"I apologize. I guess I'm really bad at talking to strangers, "Hermione concedes.

"Me too," Ginevra offers and it's a blatant lie but she has already picked up the menu and ignores successfully a drooling wizard close by.

"Why do you do for a living, Ginevra?" Hermione asks, remembering her manners.

"Gin for friends, please. Ginevra sounds so archaic!" the woman complains, but there is an underlying inborn sweetness in this gesture too. "I'm an Auror actually. You might have heard that I am actually an American – hence the accent. My family had to relocate to England so I'm hoping I can get a job here. Just went to an interview today."

To say she's surprised it's an understatement. Hermione gapes a little at the woman before her, trying to imagine her involved in a fight, casting powerful hexes and rolling on dirty floors.

"I just heard," Ginevra starts again. "About the horrible incident a few days ago. I'm happy to see you're alright. If they let me in the team, I'll make sure the responsible wizards are caught," she says with such a determination that Hermione does not doubt her for a second.

However, she tries to imagine this impossible beautiful woman working in a department with a majority of male employees. Not that she doubts the blonde's prowess, what she is not very confident about is the self-restrain of the men around her. She taps her wand on an item on the menu and a small dish of salmon appears before her.

"I'm fine, thank you!" Hermione answers. "It was a fright, more than anything else, especially since Death Eaters were supposed to be a thing of the past. I hope you make the Auror ranks, Ginevra. They could surely benefit from a new perspective."

"Thank you, Hermione, you're very polite," the woman answers mechanically.

Ginevra looks totally unimpressed by the range of options on her menu, but orders a soup anyway. It appears in front of her and is about to be totally ignored for the rest of the lunch.

"Draco was right about you, you know?" the blonde says, eyeing her with a curious look and Hermione feels as if this witch can see right through her.

"Right about what?" she says, doing her best to keep her voice casual.

"I told him I would approach you and he warned you would be very cautious with new people. Must come with your past and notoriety. I hope I don't put you off."

"Not at all," Hermione answers fast and it's one big lie because everything about this witty, direct woman has her in tethers.

She knocks on his door three times. In her haste she has put on an old, shaggy dress and flats, but she doesn't really think fashion at the moment. She thinks of…

Malfoy answers too fast and she is left gaping in the door.

He arches an eyebrow and shoots.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says mechanically.

"Why are you here then?" he presses and she cringes at the coldness in his voice.

Jeez, can't someone actually pay a curt visit to a colleague?

"I came to… talk."

"Yeah, I expected it," he says gloomily. "I was just wondering how long it would take you to blast me for that evening's events," he says, still keeping her in the doorway. "What are you going to do? Have me fired, write to the Ministry about me? Or better yet chase me away from England and make sure you never have to see my Death Eater face again?"

He says all this with venom in his voice, harsh words pouring one after the other, while his body is stiff and stuck in a defensive pose. Hermione doesn't think she has the nerve to start a conversation so she does the only thing that seems reasonable to her: she leaps up and kisses him.

He stumbles back a few steps under her blatant attack and, following, she has efficiently entered his apartment. Unhindered, she raises herself on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck, her lips pressing against his easily, softly. He stiffens and she closes her eyes, because she does not want to visualize any rejection, scorn or whatever else he might have in store for her. Instead she musters all her courage and sucks his lower lip, making him gasp inside her mouth. She uses the opportunity to sneak her tongue inside his mouth, and although she's shivering all around, scared out of her wits, she holds on to him. Not only because she kisses him with all her might, but also because if she lets go, her feet are not steady enough to support her.

It's still as good as the first time. He tastes like fresh fruits and he smells like he has just showered. She wants both his smell and his taste to remain ingrained in her senses.

Cautiously, easily, he removes her hands from around his neck, pushes her away and silently motions for her to sit on the armchair. Then he goes to close the door and when he turns, he has the most perfect poker face she has seen on someone. It makes her anxiety rise to dangerous levels.

"You came for more," he says neutrally and she nods concomitantly. He shakes his head. "I think it's best if you leave."

She stays rooted to her spot. It's quiet in his apartment. It's a perfectly orderly place, the stuff of her OCD dreams, and there's a hazy light coming from the candles strewn on the window sill and everything smells fresh and expensive. There is something about being in this place that stirs her. There is something about the way his T-shirt sits on his body that makes her take it off. There is a voice in her head that makes her do reckless things.

"You don't want me to leave."

It's said in a small voice, but it's enough for him to fixate her with a hard look. He snorts and comes to sit right beside her. The proximity is doing mean things to her insides. If only she could reach out, take that T-shirt off and run her hands over his chest.

"You don't really want this, Granger, trust me. You don't know what you'd be getting yourself into."

It's an instant trigger and her temper flares:

"I'm sick and tired of people telling me what I want. What I feel. What I need," she says as if only now she becomes aware of all this. It emboldens her further. "I've been afraid of this for too long."

He shakes his head, laughs to himself.

"Then go find some arguably lucky bastard that actually cares. Let him satiate your hunger for carnal knowledge. I'm not some fucking Prince Charming. I will not propose to you at any point. I will not even start a relationship with you. I won't take you out for dates, bring you flowers or buy presents for your birthday. The only thing I have in mind is fucking you into oblivion. But I won't do it. You'll feel violated by that and resent me for the rest of your living days. You think you have made a decision and made your way here thinking I am stupid enough to take your word for it. Bullshit, Granger, you're not ready for what I have in mind."

"I'll take what you're giving," she replies fast, her brown eyes intent on his, ready to counteract anything he says.

He laughs again, lifts himself up, then takes out a packet of cigarettes and motions for her to follow him. The make their way to his large balcony and Hermione takes in the wonderful view that he has over the city. The thousands of flickering lights spread before them, the distance noises of a bustling town and the beauty of seeing the city from afar. They sit again at a small table and he lights the first cigarette.

He hasn't kicked her out yet.

"I'm not here to save you from yourself, Granger," he drawls after the first puff. "Working for you has its limits. By the way, how do you this will work with us actually working together?"

It surprises her that he considers it more than a one-time kind of thing. Very well then.

"I've always separated work from my personal life. I will do it this time."

He looks at her strangely.

"Just how I expected it: you're delusional."

She narrows her eyes at him. Then she baits:

"You look like you're afraid of this. Afraid of me."

"Whatever you want to tell yourself," he says, unaffected.

She leans in, puts one tentative hand on his knee. His sharp intake of breath tells her everything she needs to know. She has this impression that whatever his mouth will say, his body will contradict it. It's the ace in her sleeve.

"What do you want from me, Granger?"

She lets the question hang in the air for a few seconds. Her eyes focus on some point in the distance. She wants to feel. Her life up to that point has been all about self-imposed restrictions and placing brains above everything. Now she's alone, feeling like a wilting flower. She hasn't felt like that on the night he has touched her so privately. She wants that and that alone: to escape the limitations of her own skin, to focus on her pleasure alone.

"I want you to teach me," she says, hoping to sound cool, but she can hear the cracks in her own voice. She goes on, regardless. "Teach me all you know about sex, if that's what you want to hear. You went on and on about how ignorant I am. Well, damn it, Malfoy, this is your chance to show me what I've been missing!" she challenges, more angry than she intended. But her gaze does not shy away from his amused one.

His hand pushes hers away and rests casually on her thigh, caressing through the fabric of her dress. She still doesn't look away. It travels all the way to the hem, just to hitch the fabric further and further up, going up at the slowest pace possible. She feels his movements, the pads of his fingers barely touching her and she comes to recognize that she's already aroused. Instead of jerking her foot away or slapping his hand, she stays still.

Malfoy's gaze darkens.

"I have to say it: you, offering yourself to me like that is quite endearing, but I don't do virgins," he threatens, taking another drag of his cigarette. "It's much too messy."

She thinks of the physical part: her dirty, muddy blood staining his expensive, pristine sheets.

"You don't do virgins or you don't do mudbloods?"

He withdraws his hand and frowns at her angrily.

"There are no Mudbloods, Granger, I learned this the hard way. Don't act like you don't know. Your offended act does not work on me. And speaking of prejudices… What would your dearest friends say about you taking a tumble between the sheets with the guy they despise? What would Weasel and the Boy Who Annoyed think of their Saint Granger, falling from grace and in my bed?"

She expects this. She has prepared an answer.

"What I do or don't do in bed is none of my friends' business."

He's taken aback by the fierceness of her answer, clouding himself in a veil of smoke. He is quiet for a few moments more, as if contemplating something. He lowers his hand to caress her thigh again and a chill creeps up her spine.

"You're a virgin. You have no idea how to separate sex and emotions, you insisted on this particular aspect. For someone like you, they're interwoven. Come together. I don't want to hear you, a few weeks into it, professing undying love for me, claiming you can save me from some hypothetical evil that resides in me. One second you'll be moaning under me, the next one you'll cry in my ear, asking to start a relationship. No, no, don't even start, I don't want to hear it," he says, waving a hand in her face when she tries to answer. "You want to learn something? I am the worst person to play the teacher. Girls like you expect flowers and chocolates and confessions under the moonlight. They are under the impression that if I undress them we're destined to end up together. Oh, Granger, don't even try to fight me on this. Up until a week ago, you were convinced sex and love are inseparable, what the hell are you trying to prove now?"

She recounts their conversations, her callous ignorance towards sexuality. She doesn't tell him that she has spent the last week watching documentaries about human relationships, she doesn't reveal that she had read books about sexuality or even plain erotica. She doesn't think he needs to know that he has invaded her dreams, that she has been aching for that feeling that only he managed to give her.

Instead, she watches his face, confusing him. She takes in the beautiful, aristocratic features, those peculiar grey eyes, like clouds before the storm, the way his features darken just now, making him look older than he is, almost roguish. She imagines him without his T-shirt, that lean, taut skin, the outline of his muscles, the hardness of his abdomen. He's beautiful, she acknowledges. Not handsome, nor pretty, but beautiful, in a way she doesn't remember anyone else being.

"Detachment," she says and he raises his head up surprise. "I almost died last week. And I realized I had all my future so well-planned but it could have amounted to nothing. Years ago I thought that, if we could just win the war, all my plans were bound to come true. I was so invested in making it all happen exactly as I planned it. And it looked so close… as if, if I would have extended my hand I could have reached that imagined existence and turn it into reality. But now… Now I have no fiancée, and our friends feel like they have to choose between us. When I walked on Padma and Ron… there was this look of utter bliss on their faces. Like, regardless of the obvious repercussions, they were experiencing something that was worth the risk anyway. They didn't plan weddings and a family and a two stories house with a perfectly manicured lawn. They took right what was in front of them and as much as it hurt me, they were disgustingly satisfied in that moment. And then I still held on to my beliefs, stupidly so." She pauses. "I want to detach myself from those beliefs. I could have died. I could have died, the stupid Hermione Granger that was too afraid of intimacy and sex, but fought The Dark Lord with success. I don't want that label. And you want me," she says and she looks at his beautiful, pensive face.

He doesn't deny it. He takes her hand into his, but looks away.

"Teach me," she says and shifts from her place, crossing the small space between them to sit on his lap, while her fingers clasp around his neck. Malfoy lets his head back, and his eyes closed, his hands are limp to his sides. Hermione waits, strangely calm. His body under hers makes her think of a home she longs for, even if she has never set foot inside. But before she can think about it for too long, Malfoy's long fingers stroke her neck and it's so easy to let go now. It's so oddly beautiful: the way she feels no urge to resist, the way it seems perfectly reasonable to let him use her body to his will.

"Will you do it?" she asks before she loses every remains of sanity under his skilled fingers. "Will you teach me?"

 **A/N: Now we're getting somewhere!** **J** **Do let me know what you think about this one while I put all my energy into writing the next chapter. Also, I would appreciate if you could let me know what you think about me updating so fast. I post a new chapter almost every day and it might be too fast for some of you, as it makes it difficult to catch up. What do you think? A thousand thanks in advance!**


	7. Self-Love

**A/N: You guys are freaking awesome! I'd like to take a moment to thank all those who have read and especially those who have left magical reviews or sent me PMs. You've certainly made my day and I am grateful for your wonderful support. And secondly…**

 **WARNING: this story will only get more graphic. Starting with this chapter, the content will get more and more explicit so read at your own risk. If the mature rating and the not so subtle title of this fanfic have not been enough giveaways, there you have it! You're warned! Now enjoy!**

She's still in his lap.

"Do you know what they're saying about my father?" he asks, between the breathless kisses he gives her, shifting her a little in his lap. "They say he was behind the attack of the restaurant," he adds measuring his words, and she stiffens under his touches. He brings his lips to her neck and his hand to her hip and continues in a whisper. "They say there's a connection between me working for you and Death Eaters attacking the exact restaurant you were in." She freezes, but he takes her earlobe between his lips now, grazing it with his teeth. It sends a hot, electric shock throughout her body and she curls her toes. "They say it's only a matter of time before us, Malfoys, show up our real faces and kill you. They say I've always hated you," he purrs in her ear, as he pulls her tighter, "and I'm looking for retribution."

He's making it harder to think, harder to comprehend. He moves at a torturous pace, teasing her with delicious touches and kisses, while his words pour poison in her ears. She knows he's making it harder for her to go on with her proposal.

"Oh," she whispers back, ignoring the chills on her back, "does the ploy to get back at me involve shoving your hands between my thighs?" she challenges, a little breathless.

She can feel him smirking against her neck.

"Perhaps I am only seducing you to gain better access," he says, nuzzling her collarbone with his nose. "Perhaps I am just trying to get under your skin so I can find the best moment to attack," he adds and sinks his teeth into her neck, painfully, deliciously.

Hermione sighs and lets her head back.

"It sounds like a great plan," she croaks. "Except for one thing," she manages, licking her dry lips. "You forget that I'm too smart to fall for such a trick."

He tilts his head to the side to give her an incredulous look, but can't suppress the smile that spreads on his lips. His left hand cups her breast and she jumps a little at the touch, eyes widening and then narrowing when he starts to knead it.

"Are you know?" he lets out in a breathy voice. "What are you doing on my lap then?"

She ignores the loud, warning voice of her conscience and reaches for the hem of his green T-shirt, sneaking her palm underneath. His soft skin under her palm feels like an award in itself and when he shivers slightly she knows she has won the big prize.

"According to the rumors," she answers, taking the plunge and kissing him right beneath the corner of his mouth, "doing some living before you finish me."

She doesn't get the double meaning of her own words, but he's so fast she gets dizzy: one moment she is his lap, the next she's thrown onto the sofa, caught between the mattress and his long body. They crash with a loud thud and it's out of instinct that she wraps her legs around him and he groans and swears, before he bends to capture her lips. She can feel his hardness through his trousers and it does things to her sanity that she won't like to remember later. For now, all she knows is that she wants him in the darkness of the room, that he can take her on that same sofa if he so wishes. She wants to feel delirious, reckless and he can provide just that.

He stops again and she almost groans from the frustration. As he tries to stand, her fingers wind up in the fabric of his shirt and she pulls his mouth back to hers. It's a rather delectable mouth and she's not going to let him go just yet.

He accept the kiss, returns it with vigor, but right before she melts he pulls her up with him. Before she knows what he has done, they are standing in front of a wall long mirror and he has lighted all the candles in the room with a flick of his wrist.

She cringes at her own reflection: the wild strands of hair are making her look like a Medusa, her lips are red and swollen from kissing and her dress looks crumpled like an old rag. There's a slight tremor in her body too, barely perceptible. He comes from behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, and buries his head in her hair.

"Look at yourself, Granger. Remember this image," he breathes, trailing kisses down her neck. "You will come to remember it as the day when you were still alright. Cherish it now, because you're jumping headfirst into something you'll be ashamed of when you're married and have two redhead children that drive you bonkers. I want you to know, for the last time, how it feels to be in control of your senses. This is it, Granger, your way out, I'm offering it to you now, in case you fail to notice. Take it quick, before I sink my claws into you, before the world notices you've given up your morals and have succumbed to the wicked ways of the scum that is the Malfoy heir."

He has captured her earlobe between his teeth and pulls gently. It's getting incredibly hard to think and unbearably hot in his apartment. It's disconcerting: the depreciative way someone so proud talks about himself. But it's worse that, while his hands massage her waist anxiously, he keeps underestimating her. He does not understand yet just how big of a chasm spreads between the person she has been when she cowered before his innuendos in her own office and the person she is now, having survived the loss of a potential soulmate and a Death Eaters attack. He fails to see the huge shift in her. He'll reap the consequences of that.

There is a blaze in her eyes and it makes him pause his ministrations. She summons her determination.

"Do your best," she challenges.

She is swiftly turned around, feeling the cold surface of the mirror pressing against her back and his craved body leaning in. She feels dizzy with the anticipation, wants to break the invisible barrier and have him fulfill the deal already. He rests his palms on the cold surface of the mirror and is looking down for a second. She arches her back and presses into him, not leaving his thoughts wander.

"So," she says to thaw the icy silence between them, "shouldn't we… I mean," she adds and clears her throat. "Move to the bed, perhaps?"

He chuckles and she frowns at him, thinking he's mocking her. He passes his thumb along her lower lip and there is a twitch in his own.

"No, Granger, you don't get to boss me around here too," he says, scanning her body. "Plus, we're not fucking tonight."

"Why not?" she asks, a little high – pitched, although the word "fucking" still makes her cringe. "I thought that was the whole point of our agreement."

"Agreement, huh?" he teases. "I haven't agreed to anything yet. And you're not ready to get in bed with me. Nor on the floor, on my desk, on the terrace…"

He lets the sentence open and smirks wickedly while she tries to swallow the lump in her throat, tries to control the shiver that threatens to make her knees give in.

"I want to see how you please yourself." he whispers, staring into her eyes as if he's looking for something he knows she's about to conceal. "I want to see what gets you all hot and bothered."

She stiffens once more and averts her gaze. This was not part of the deal. Was it?

"Look," she says, offended. "Perhaps I hadn't made myself clear. When I said I wanted to do this, I obviously hadn't meant I want a freak, erotic show, now if we could just get to…"

"And I said you aren't ready for that. How you plan to achieve pleasure when you have no idea what you want. Don't cower now, Granger. Or was that pretty little speech you gave me before just for the show?"

She rolls her shoulders back, trying to look taller. He has this amused expression on his face, the twitch in his lips that makes her think he's about to laugh at her actions any moment now. He might be insanely rich but she won't allow him this luxury.

"I know what I want," she says stubbornly.

As if on cue, he bends and brushes his knuckles along the back of her right knee. A surge of electricity passes through her, disintegrating her knees and she actually grabs his shoulders for support. He laughs again and doesn't grab her weak form.

"You didn't know you like that," he says smugly. "You know you'll have to trust me, Granger, don't you? That if that Gryffindor brain of yours is convinced you can do this, then you'll have to let your guard down, lower your defenses for me. Oh, I know, following other person's lead is something new to your self-sufficient little being, but you're the one who barged in through the main entrance and were seconds away from impaling yourself on my wonderful –"

"Tell me what I need to do," she interrupts, to his endless amusement and he steps back, leaving her to stand still and awkward in the middle of the living room. She begins to think it was a horrible idea, but then, silently, he takes her hand and leads her to what must be the bedroom. She doesn't have time to study her surroundings because he has nudged her to the bed the second they're inside and she lays beneath him, barely daring to breath.

This feels like crossing a threshold. Knowing she's in his bed feels far too intimate to be comfortable. Knowing that he lays his head to sleep in this space, every single night, and that he dreams here makes her suddenly afraid of something she can't name. He must sense her reluctance because his kiss becomes more demanding, as if he wants to wipe every conscious thought out of her overworked brain. But before she can get accustomed with it he takes one of her hands and places it on her breast. Then he guides it to knead it.

"How does this feel?" he whispers in her ear, as he repeats the gesture.

It feels like she's rediscovering her body. Her own fingers, guided by his, cup her breast, and even though her touch is dulled by the fabric of her dress and her bra, it still manages to send small waves of pleasure through her. She arches her back into their intertwined hands, frustrated that her hand is too small to wrap completely around her globe. He curls her fingers so they squeeze and the delicious sensation elicits a small moan.

When she opens her eyes again he's watching her intently, as if she's some complex mathematical problem that he has to approach with the utmost care. Her eyes are curious, lustful. If she'd have the strength to speak now she'd ask him "what next?"

He guesses it anyway. Much too soon, he removes that hand from her breast and leads it to gently caress the line between her collarbone and neck. She thinks it's weird that she finds this small touch erotic too, and blames it on the way he licks his dry lips. He supports himself on one elbow and looks down on her.

"I'm going to undress you now," he whispers, his eyes challenging her to refuse him. "And then I'm not going to touch you at all. You're going to make yourself come."

None of the things he has just said seems doable. Still, she shivers pleasantly when he bends down to kiss her kneecap in an almost chaste manner, before strong hands pull her dress over the head. He inhales sharply when he looks at her, so intense that she squirms under the heavy implication of that gaze, but then he lifts her on her bottom, unclasps her bra in a swift moment. Her breasts spring free and she's not prepared for the onslaught of emotions, nor for the image that her erect nipples present. She flushes, feeling insecurity creep on her, while her cheeks are attacked by a calamitous blush.

He groans as if he's in pain. His eyes are glued to her breasts and he actually licks his lips, before his voice comes out almost angry.

"I've been imagining how your breasts look like since the evening I first saw you in that green dress. Do you have any idea how much it costs me not to ravage them right now?"

She wants him to ravage them! However, he has hooked his thumbs under the elastic of her simple cotton panties and pulls them off her legs in a nanosecond.

His eyes are even more furious now, scanning her body up and down with a feral glaze. To avoid thinking that she's standing utterly naked and exposed in Draco Malfoy's expensive sheets she focuses on him instead, chest rising and falling in angry, labored breaths, mouth twitching dangerously, eyes blazing.

"Fuck, fuck," he says and he actually punches the mattress. "All I want to do is sink myself into you right now."

She thinks she wants it too. She's terrified by everything that might follow, but she fights her way through the whirlpool of emotions and reaches a tentative hand to his shoulder.

"Don't," he threatens, jerking back. "Don't or I'll lose it."

Instead, he sits as before, guiding her trembling fingers to her naked left breast. She closes her eyes instantly.

"I want you to take your nipple between your thumb and index finger and pinch it easily," he orders. "Yeah, just like that Granger, now twirl it," he says huskily and in the silence of the room she thinks she can hear his voice echo from wall to wall, obscuring every other thought. "The other breast too," he says now, speaking rapidly. "Bring your other hand to your right breast and do the same. How does that feel, Granger?"

Even the sound of her own name is arousing. His voice is commanding, low, cracks in low growls at time. She's writhing, powerless under her own hands.

"Now leave them be. See how hard your nipples are? Almost as hard as I am now," he wheezes and she rolls her eyes to the back of her head, while a sheen of sweat invades her forehead. "Flatten your palms on your hips and then drag them easily upwards, feel the skin underneath them. Don't hurry!" he billows and she freezes. "Touch yourself," he starts again and she hears the strain in his voice. "Let your palms wonder everywhere from your neck to your ass and back to your breasts."

It's hard to believe this is the body she has inhabited for the past 21 years. Her hands travel up and down her form and every touch is incandescent. She wiggles under the strokes of her own hands, she grabs herself and takes her flesh to heights she didn't know were achievable. She squeezes her breasts and every other mound of flesh in her way and, at times, her own fingernails drag along her sides, searching for something she cannot define. Before long she's panting, looking at his stiff form with a plea in her eyes.

"Spread your legs," he orders but she turns her head to the side and buries her face in a pillow. He snatches it beneath her as his fingers cup her jaw and force her to look up to him again. "Move your fingers between your legs," he commands mercilessly and she just stares powerless at his grey orbs, now two dangerous storms hurling at the swaying ship her body seems have become. "No, no," he hisses when her right hand stops between her thighs. "Higher. Right between your folds, Granger. Drag those fingers between your wet folds, I can see how slick your lips are."

She chokes on her own breath and her pleasure is fractured by her own indecision. He narrows his eyes at her and when she still resists, his hand grabs her wrist, slaps her Venus Mountain with her own fingers. There is a jolt of pleasure that attacks her and he grips her wrist painfully moving it up and down her mound until she flexes shaky fingers and they slip along her wet folds: a long moan is wrenched from her throat, hits the roof of her mouth and comes out strangled, desperate. When her fingers find her clitoris, she reaches a fever pitch that burns her brain, boils her blood.

"Slip a finger inside," his voice reaches her through the haze and she gulps. He looms over her, takes her other hand, uses it to spread her legs apart even wider, then sinks back into the mattress, still again. "Now," he repeats stronger. "Slip your middle finger inside you now."

She obeys. There's a pool of wetness as her finger slides in easily and her toes curl when she cries out. She moves it again, tentatively and when she feels the barrier of her virginity the pleasure seems to increase tenfold. In all her weakness she discovers a surge of power that makes her feel like she floats above the bed. She keeps her eyes shut as she finds a rhythm, thrashing on the bed. But it's not enough, it's never enough."

"Add a second finger," a voice urges and she can't tell if it's his or her own thoughts overrule her.

The two fingers stretch the walls of her vagina in a way that makes her hips buckle, jerking up to meet the pressure of her hand. She disconnects from the outside world, the sweet madness she experiences the only thing that remains important, that earth-shattering pleasure that pulls her further away from conscious thought and into a world of bliss.

"Curl the fingers. Carefully," the voice speaks again and she does once, twice, discovering wonderful secrets that her body had denied her before.

She's fighting something. She hears a couple of "No's" escaping her lips as waves and waves of pleasure grip her painfully, building up to something she does not understand. Her body is rushing towards something devastating, lurches at full speed and her "No's" become louder as her moves become more frantic. It's all too much, way too much, she's going to shatter from that intensity.

"Let go," the voice commands and her fingers pump harder while she screams her heart out.

The world has stopped moving on its axis and a strong light coming from within her head blinds her, cuts her breath. Then the walls of her vagina clench down on her fingers in a spasmodic rhythm, pleasure and a hint of pain combining in a mind-boggling mixture. Her limbs thrash violently under a pleasure so intense she thinks it's all too hard to bear it. Her lungs feel trapped under the cage of her chest, her heart thumps erratically and she is sweating all over, as if she had just run a marathon.

She wants to stay in that moment for as long as possible

Then, with difficulty, her body grows heavy again and the world comes back into focus.

The first thing she notices is his figure, tempestuous eyes fixed on her, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. She makes a move towards him, but he jumps out of bed and goes to stand with her back toward her, looking out the window. She makes the outline of his heaving shoulders, but his feet are planted firmly on the ground.

She studies herself, sticky fingers, dry mouth, shaking limbs. And, in the darkness of the room, the reality of what just happened settles in her core, making her cold. She itches to call his name, but bites her lower lip to suppress it. A new instinct goads her to hold on to him, to wrap herself around that body. But he's standing still and with his back to her.

As if… he's ashamed, or perhaps even disgusted of what had just happened. Humiliation creeps up on her, making her sick to her stomach. She shifts on the bed, searches frantically for her clothes. When she identifies her wand, she shoots a couple of Scourgify, one after the other to make sure she removes each hint of her presence. After it's done, in her haste, she finds him staring at her with his brows furrowed.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he says and the coldness in his voice startles her.

"Leaving," she says, putting her shoes on to avoid his gaze. "So you can wipe the disgusted expression off your face."

She does not understand how he's so fast, but one of his hands has snuck into her hair and pulls it back painfully, while he pushes her until her back hits the wall.

"ARE. . ?" he spits, keen as he always is on unhealthy levels of profanity. She notices a vein throbbing in his temple: "To your information, I'm not disgusted, Granger, I'm hellishly aroused. Aroused so badly that I use every ounce of self-restrain not to tear up your clothes and take you like a madman. Merlin's balls, do you always have to jump to the worst conclusions?" he says and releases her so suddenly that she stumbles back a few steps.

He paces around the room, grunting and growling like an animal and she notices he sweats too.

"It's best if you leave," he says, not looking at her. "Go away now before I tear you apart! Run, Granger," he yells and she cowers, scrambling out of the room, far from his view.

But as she closes the main door behind her and hears something shattering behind it, there is just one thought that haunts her.

She had wanted to stay.

 **A/N: So… yeah! What do you think about it? ;)**


	8. No Sympathy for the Devil

They have been standing in the stifling heat for more than an hour. The cooling charms poured from the tips of more than one wand, but they seem useless against the pervading summer heat. There are a few dozens of people in a room much too small for comfort, fighting the July heat. Picked from various departments, from newbies to heads of the departments, they sit discussing the Death Eaters situation. And they were all sweating.

Why are there no windows in the Ministry meeting rooms?

Harry is speaking over the crowd, going over all the details for what seems like umpteenth time. Ron actually groans and rolls his eyes a couple of times, his face red from the summer heat, his eyes throwing surreptitious glances in her direction.

Hermione scribbles furiously on a piece of paper in front of her, but it feels like a nerve –wrecking puzzle that she just can't solve. She has to admit that they don't know anything more about the Death Eaters. Besides her, Malfoy is quiet and displays an obstinate bored expression that changes to annoyance every time he catches his name whispered under a mutter or another. There are a lot of people that do not want him there. She doesn't want him there too, but it's for entirely different reasons.

It turns out that Ginevra Keens did make the Auror team. She sits leaning on the west wall, despite the fact that three wizards have offered her their seats, and from her standing position she takes in the room with a stern figure, twirling her wand in her hands. Hermione thinks she has caught her fixating on Malfoy once or twice, but doesn't dwell on it: her stomach churns every time she imagines them together.

It is the turn of the Minister of Magic to speak. Kingsley Shacklebolt assures all the present wizards and witches that measures have been taken to ensure the safety of Muggleborns and that the Ministry is doing its best to secure both the wizarding and the muggle world. Disbelieving whispers fly all around.

Right in the middle of his speech, the double doors are opened with vigor, thrown to the walls really and an elderly, joyous wizard with a funny mustache and impossibly red cheeks walks in followed by a much more modest, almost flustered looking Padma Patil.

"How's it going, fellers?" his voice booms and some of the people answer excitedly. "Have you managed to crack this one yet? Nasty bums those Death Eaters, aren't they?" he says to the bafflement of most of the occupants in the room.

Hermione recognizes him as the incorrigible Mr. Lakeridge, the Chief of The Department of International Magical Cooperation. He somehow finds a seat among the busy room, plopping himself into it with noise, while Padma smiles meekly to the curious eyes that avert to her. The old man rearranges his belly under the round table and speaks again.

"I just might have solved this one for you. I obviously apologize for arriving this late but you know what they say: you can't rush greatness. And the Minister of Australia has such a taste for good wine that…"

Padma clears her throat loudly, not even bothering to disguise her gesture as she gives her boss a meaningful glance. The old man, the white curls on his head bouncing, slaps his leg and then turns towards the room as if everyone was holding his breath, waiting for him to share his knowledge.

"But, of course, how thoughtful of you, Miss Patil! I am telling you, I have got the best people in my department and this girl," he says pointing a chubby finger to Padma, "this girl is going to take my place someday, I'm telling you. Rather soon, you'll see!"

"Mr. Lakeridge," Padma start,s trying to keep her head high but blushing profusely," perhaps you should tell them about what we discovered in Australia…"

The old man seems to think about it for a moment.

"Nah, you tell them, you're better at this."

Padma doesn't wait to be told a second time.

"We met the Ministry of Magic in Australia today," she starts, gravely, capturing the room's attention from the first word. "We went there on a regular visit, but it turns out they have identified an organization of pureblooded wizards that gathers weekly to plot attack on Muggleborns… " she pauses as if trying to assess how to better express what comes next "we have reasons to believe they are connected with the attacks here."

Several people are gasping and there's furious whispering around the room.

"How so," Harry asks, leaping from his seat to have better access to Padma. "Can you tell us more?"

The girl offers a sad look:

"Our Australian counterparts have taken a look at their finances and… it seems that all the funds for these groups are coming from England."

The whispers grow louder and the people are shifting in their seats. Hermione's brow furrow in concentration, but then Padma speaks again.

"To continue the investigation I will need the help of the department of Magical Law enforcement," she says, looking anywhere, but at Hermione. "And the Aurors department too, of course," she says, braver. "Together, we can get to the bottom of this," she encourages.

Hermione frowns, swallows the bile in her throat and nods. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees Ron sinking in his seat and Harry, lost deep in concentration. Malfoy snorts at her and she narrows her eyes at him.

"Grow up," he whispers harshly and Hermione whips her head to give him a full glare. He snorts again.

"Thank you, Miss Patil," the Minister of Magic says, standing up, his warm black eyes twinkling with gratitude. "I will personally make sure that you and all three departments will have at your disposal all the necessary resources to stop this epidemic of hate from spreading further."

"Why do we even bother to invest resources in such a hunt?" an obfuscated voice breaks out and all eyes turn to Maye Wadley, a thirty something witch with dark blue hair and pursed lips. "Why beat around the bush when it's clear to see who is the dark and very dangerous wizard behind all this," she says, her shrill voice dripping venom. "Or rather, who is family behind all is," she continues, her eyes dead set on the blonde beside Hermione. She sees his hands curl into fists as they are pulled into his lap.

Someone tugs at the woman's elbow, but she retreats it, looking affronted. "What?" she spats. "Are we all going to stand here and pretend it's alright to feed all this information to a Death Eater that we have been naïve enough to allow in our circle?"

Some witches covers their surprised mouth with their hands, while more than one wizard coughs uncomfortably. Hermione see Malfoy's nostrils flaring, but he's perfectly still, holding the woman's glare, while everybody around them tenses. Then she remembers the conversations they had two nights ago, in his bed…

"How convenient," the woman goes on, enraged by Malfoy's silence. "That Lucius Malfoy was set free from Azkaban right before the attacks begun. And that his son, a Death Eater, is sitting in this very room, mocking our efforts to catch him! Why are you here, evil spy?"

People start to talk loudly, there's a chaotic commotion now and Draco Malfoy glares contemptuously at the witch. He finally speaks up:

"I'd like to applaud this brave woman for the outstanding moral fiber that she displays in such a critical moment," he replies before anyone else can barge in the conversation, causing people to stop dead in their tracks, confused. "Such an example of all the attributes that the brave heroes of the war have tried to instill in us all," he drawls, deepening their shock. "Attributes such as forgiveness, care for the future and, of course, cooperation. It's so good to see all of these brought up today, he says," a lazy, cool voice piercing the tenseness in the room as Hermione squirms next to him.

The woman is now red in the face.

"You're a murderer, you deserve to die in Azkaban. Along your whole family."

"That's enough," both Harry and Kingsley Shacklebolt say at the same time, but it's to no avail.

"And you are fools," the woman retorts, her chin up the air. "Fools, all of you," she continues addressing the crowd. "Sitting here, not only tolerating this scum, but actually allowing him to know all your secrets while he must prepare to decimate the ranks of good people. I'm ashamed of your actions," she spats, her wand in her hand now. Hermione sees Malfoy talking his own wand out, under the table and she mutters a horrified "Don't" in his direction. "And you, weren't you supposed to be smart?" the woman says, standing up and pointing an irate index finger at Hermione. "How can you be so stupid to let this monster pretend to work with you? How do you have the nerve to allow him to be in your presence, when his father has killed hundreds of girls like you? Are you going to let his son finish you?"

Hermione freezes in her seat, and feels something burning in the pit of her stomach: it's the first time in her entire life that someone has called her stupid and she's not prepared for it. She feels Malfoy stir right next to her.

"My family defected," Malfoy says in a clipped voice, his eyes shooting daggers at the woman. "If it weren't for us, all of you would not be standing here. If it weren't for a great Professor, who many believed to be a spy as well, this Ministry would have crumbled a long while ago. If it weren't for a sixteen years old boy who was assigned to kill his headmaster in order to save his family, but who still lied to Death Eaters in his own house so Harry Potter could live, then little judgmental twats like you would have been dead."

The woman leaps out of her seat and throws an erratic hex at Malfoy's form, and Hermione, Draco and Padma all duck beneath the chairs as the table is set on fire.

"How dare you?" she yells, gaining in on them. "How dare you threaten me, you Death Eater monster!" the enraged woman says and fires again, but this time the spell is blocked by somebody else and the woman is disarmed: her wand flies easily into the hand of a listless Ginevra.

"Mrs. Maye Wadley, isn't it?" she says in a clipped, but ultimately polite tone. "Muggleborn, I think? Mother of Bradley and Chelsea," Ginevra goes on, unnecessarily smoothing her new Auror robes as the woman is staring at her, gaping. "You brought us all shame today," she says, accentuating the word shame, as everyone in the hall seems concentrated on her figure and on the cool, unforgiven voice. "I know in dark times like these we're all prone to pick scapegoats, but let's not rush to conclusions before we know all the facts, alright?" she adds, not leaving anyone to intervene.

"Mrs. Wadley, Draco Malfoy is not a murderer. He is certified Healer," she says simply, but more than a few faces show surprise, while Draco fixates her with a look Hermione can't recognize. It looks like a warning, perhaps. "And more than that, he saved my life," she adds pointedly, her perfectly arched brows furrowing. "In his capacity as Healer he saved countless other lives too, before coming back _home_. Half-bloods like me," she adds, staring straight into the woman's perplexed face. "And even Muggleborns like you, in an American hospital. There are records of it, you can check them if you so please."

Hermione's head is reeling. She has been in the man's bed, but had no clue he was a Healer. But of course, this explains his knowledge of potions and healing balms, the understanding that he had of her wounds, the care he has shown… Draco stands unbearably stiff in his chair, poker-faced. Ginevra looks at him curiously, before twirling her wand in her hands and it's Padma that speaks after Kingsley manages to silence the room.

"If we are going to catch the Death Eaters –the actual Death Eaters - and to stop this avalanche of hate, we have to work together," she says. "Fearmongering and distrust are never productive," she pleads, but glares at the still furious witch and the few wizards who had stood still behind the irate woman. "Being suspicious of one another will not get us anywhere. I'd like to remind you all that we have a common goal: protecting the lives of our people."

"And sending the responsible ones to the jail," Hermione adds in as she stands up and pushes her chair back. She has her arms folded across her chest and gives the woman a withering glance.

"As a Muggleborn," she starts "I've had a first-hand experience with bullying . Before the war it was because I was a Muggleborn and a swot, as they so kindly put it," she says bitterly. "After the war it seems that people still mock me, but this time for defending others: house-elves, war scarred individuals… friends. I would have thought that we all learned something from the war, "she says loudly, making sure her eyes reach every person in the crowded room. "It seems that I was wrong."

"What have you been doing during the war?" Malfoy asks, refusing to show any remorse. "While people were fighting, while my entire family was a prisoner of Voldemort. I don't remember seeing you on the battlefield," he baits, self-assured once more.

There are more than a few heads bowed down in shame and Maye's face is ridiculous now, weak under the torment that makes her features change every other moment, from fear to anger to shame. However, she does not sit down, she does not apologize.

"This is not over yet, Malfoy," she says, poking the air with her wand. "You'll see what good people do to protect themselves."

The meeting is declared over right after her last input and Malfoy is among the first ones to exit, his long feet walking briskly towards the door. Hermione wants to join him, but sees Ginevra sprinting from her place and making her way through the crowd. Hermione follows them until she's out on the corridor and then she watches their interaction. The woman is pleading something with him, while Malfoy looks agitated and seems to dismiss her. She doesn't leave though, trailing after him, her blonde hair swaying behind her like a gold curtain. In a swift move, her palms cover Malfoy's cheeks and she has captured his lips. Hermione takes a step back, feeling her stomach churn. Malfoy is unresponsive at first, silent, but it doesn't take long for his hands to wrap around her waist and he seems to return the kiss. Their embrace becomes very passionate very fast and Ginevra pauses for a second so her eyes can scan her surroundings. The last thing Hermione sees is Malfoy's silver blonde hair, as they both disappear behind a black door.

She whips her head around, wanting to rush to her office when she comes face to face with the curious eyes of a startled Padma. The brunette casts her eyes down, mumbles a quick apology and then quickly walks in the opposite direction: Hermione feels even smaller now.

But then Ron exits and he calls her name in that cheerful voice of his that has the power to lighten any mood. She stands and gives him a small smile, despite everything.

"Nasty thing that woman. And the vile mouth of hers," he says, coming to stand so close to her now. Hermione takes in a deep breath and asks the question she has been meaning to ask the whole meeting.

"Actually, Ron… uhm, I was wondering how come you were silent. I mean I know how much you dislike Malfoy and I guess I was expecting you to have a similar outburst…"

He scratches the back of his head.

"I wanted to. Merlin, he was such a git to us at Hogwarts. To you, especially, 'Mione. But I reckon having Voldemort in your childhood house for year was no easy breezy period. Merlin, can you imagine if Voldemort had been at The Burrow, Mione?" he says, looking aghast.

Hermione finds herself giggling and the sound it's unexpected to her too, but it feels like the burst of a bad karma bubble.

"Ron," she chastises, more out of habit than anything else.

"I trust you, Hermione," he says, more serious now. "Even if Malfoy would be as bad as that lady said, you are smart enough to defend yourself. And if you ever need help you know that Harry and I would not hesitate to hex his pompous ass!" he cries, swishing his wand in the air.

A warm, fuzzy feeling envelops her, easing her previous anxiety and she finds herself smiling at him.

"Thanks you," she mouths.

"No problem! And I… well I've been meaning to tell you something." Her face falls and he waves his hand quickly. "No, no, not that," he says, surmising that she thinks he'll start speaking about what he has done. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm leaving the Aurors Department after we solve this case. George has asked me to help him with the shop and I think I'll like to be his partner. This kind of life is more suited for Harry than for me and I… I want to settle down eventually, have a family without being afraid that… you know, I won't be coming home in the evening. I mean, as much as I can't stand Malfoy, there's something that I cannot shake: the images of him and his coward, but desperate parents huddled together in the Great Hall at the final battle. I… never want that for any family. I've stayed in the Department so far to avenge Fred's death but I think it's time…" He pauses and gives her a strange look. "Well, I… I hope you're not disappointed in me, Hermione."

"Not at all," she reassures, putting a hand on his arm and his eyes widen at the contact. She drops her arm with an apologetic smile. "I'm proud you're making a mature decision, Ron. I'm happy if it makes you happy," she says, keeping the smile.

Ron breathes out in relief. Then he casts his eyes down again.

"That's always good to hear. Look, Hermione, I won't say that I'm not the world's biggest arse anymore, but you've always been better than me and I was wondering… Well, I, well, we… Argh, Mione, please say we're still friends. I've disappointed everyone and I don't deserve you, but I've known you for so long and you… you are part of my family. Everyone at the Burrow misses you and no gathering with friends feels the same and I miss you chastising me and your good advice and… Please, please, tell me we can still be friends!"

She takes a step back, while Ron waits with his shoulders slumped, shoulders slumped and a red, remorseful face. His anxiety palpable. Hermione has the instinct to leap up and hug him, stopping herself on the very last moment.

"We are still friends, Ron," she smiles. "We'll always be friends."

He doesn't hesitate to hug her. Pulls her too tight in those strong and warm arms and then spring back in the next second, remembering there are boundaries now. He gives her a sheepish smile and makes a move to leave before he spoils it, as a look of painful remembrance crosses his face and he says in a strangled voice.

"Mione… don't hate Padma, please. She has done you wrong, but she's a good girl. I hope that… what Malfoy said is true, you know. That we can all forgive," he says gravely and he's gone without waiting an answer leaving Hermione flabbergasted for more than one reason. Since when is Ron taking Malfoy's words to the heart? And, more severely, since when is Ron, who always runs from responsibilities, actually defending someone at the risk of upsetting her?

The world must have turned upside down.

She waits for him, pacing in her office and glancing at the clock on the wall scornfully. When he finally enters, a stutter in his step, a faint heat in his cheeks and sporting silver hair that is not so perfectly in place anymore, Hermione takes a deep breath to calm her nerves and her troubled stomach. He gives her a curious look, dropping a few reports on her desk. She takes a seat.

"Sent from the department of International Magical Cooperation. Looks quite exhaustive," he says. "You might not like Patil, but the chick does know what she's doing." Then, when she still doesn't answer, he sizes her up and adds: "I can deal with Patil if you don't want to. She sounds like a reasonable sort of being, shouldn't bother me too much."

"That's fine, I will speak with her," she replies coolly, busying herself with something else.

He stands, unconvinced.

"Nice speech you gave there. Although, really, you and Patil jumping to my defense has kind of damaged my already bruised ego. Can't you let a guy defend himself nowadays?" he teases, arching an eyebrow, but Hermione remains sullen, stubbornly avoiding his gaze. "Not to mention Ginevra's little display, you three should start a band or something," he adds, rolling his eyes.

Her arm twitches at the mention of her name and she bends forward on the parchment in front of her, her nose almost touching it now.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" he says, finally coming to stand right before her.

"Nothing," she says dismissively.

"Yeah, I'm sure of that, that sour voice of yours really had me going. Now spit it out," he demands.

She glares at him, pushing her chin out. "I saw you leaving with Ginevra today," she says, avoiding his eyes now. "I don't feel comfortable with this."

He arches an eyebrow and comes round the desk to sit at her side, his arms folded in front of his chest.

"What part of it _exactly_ makes you feel uncomfortable?"

She eyes him between furrowed brows, like a sulking child, despite the fact that she knows this is not how a grown women behaves. But once more, she's not herself around him.

"I warned you, Granger, didn't I?" he says, narrowing his eyes at her. "You knew about her."

"Yes," she says hesitantly "but after what happened in your apartment I thought that…"

"You assumed that I'm going to ditch an old friend just because you sprung on me."

"I didn't sprung-"

"Actually, that's exactly what you did. Made quite a dramatic entrance at that."

She feels so humiliated she thinks she's going to cry. But no, she's not going to give him the satisfaction.

"I am not comfortable with this," she says in a small, uneasy voice.

"That's exactly why I didn't wanted to start this in the first place," he answers, groaning. "I knew it won't be long before something like this happened. I knew you had no idea about how these things work and you'd end up frustrated that I'm not acting like your boyfriend. I just knew."

"I'm not frustrated," she says, breathing harshly through her anger. "And I certainly do not wish for you to be my boyfriend!" she spats, holding her head high. "I'm not interested in your twisted mind games anymore, Malfoy!"

"Twisted mind games?" he lets out incredulously. "I told you everything upfront, insisted on certain matters that could lead to this! But you're once again keen on playing the hypocrite, aren't you? Oh, the poor great Hermione Granger, so sad because the whole world is not about her."

She jumps out her seat.

"You're a disrespectful, insufferable, twisted prat," she says, her voice rising.

"I don't remember you complaining about this while you were moaning in my bed," he bites back, towering over her, aware or her mortification. "It might interest you to know that we're not all worshipping at your feet, or willing to ditch our friends just because you're too immature to play with the grownups."

"I did not ask you to ditch your friends," she grits between her teeth, "I merely pointed out it's disrespectful to have sexual relationships with two women at the same time, you nymphomaniac!" she says, poking her chest with her finger.

"It would have been disrespectful only if said women would have been misled into thinking their relationship is of a different nature that the one they have clearly agreed upon before the start," he replies, not missing a beat and slapping her hand away.

"I don't want this!" she says, irately, shaking her head with fury. "I do not want to do this to Ginevra and be your… your… your sexual toy."

She sees his jaw clenching and her confidence waivers under his hard gaze.

"Duly noted," he replies coolly. "We're done, Granger. It was a huge mistake anyway."

They are staring hard at each other until Malfoy makes a dismissive gesture, kicks something on the floor and then leaves her office for the remaining of the day.

She can't shake the feeling that something horrible happened.

Hermione feels the tension leaving her from the first moment she steps in The Burrow. An almost deflated balloon wheezes past her ear the moment she enters the living room and on it she notices a melting image of a grinning Harry. It's his birthday after all and Fred has brought along the whole stock of Weasley Wizard Wheezes store, to Molly's constant displeasure. The old woman spots her instantly and envelops her in a warm hug: she smells like butter and childish joy.

Weasleys are, if nothing else, great huggers.

The house looks like chaos has descended upon it. Fleur is running past her with her arms flailing, trying to chase a two years old Victoire, who laughs happily. The blonde doesn't even see her, too careful to defend her daughter from some invisible danger, even though the father, Bill, laughs to himself in a corner. Hermione greets Arthur Weasley and makes her way to salute Luna, Neville and Ginny, currently discussing gifts. George is chasing after his own twins, the one year olds Fred and Roxanne, while Angelina, his wife, sips a cocktail and pretends not to see the struggling dad.

"It's mommy's free day," she says quickly to anyone noticing, then turns her back and sips again as if it's the best thing she has ever tasted.

Ron stops in his tracks when he sees her, then composes himself and walks cautiously in her direction. Hermione feels that familiar warmth enveloping her. She arranges a strand of hair behind her ear because she has to do something with her hands to stop them from wrapping themselves around him.

"Blimey, this is madness!" he says to Hermione, making his way through children toys and grabbing Roxanne by her underarms to stop her from running headfirst into the drinks table. The child peers curiously at him, and once she is safely in his arms, she extends her chubby hands to slap him in the face twice, then plays with his leather necklace. "You look lovely, Hermione, I'm so glad you came," Ron says while the little girl slaps him again and the warmth reaches her cheeks now.

The image of a child cradled in his arms brings back everything she has ever envisioned for them: the house, the family, the bright future. She tries to push those thoughts away, but then he coos at the little girl and her hormones must be raging mad because she wishes terribly that it was her child and that Ron was her husband.

 _What a mess_ , Hermione thinks as an image of angry, grey eyes pops in her head. _What an emotional mess!_

"Right, there you are!" Harry says, coming to put his arms around both their shoulders. Then, looking at Ginny and gulping : "Nope, I can't do this, call it off! I'm screwed, I'm freaking screwed."

Ron frowns.

"Merlin, you fought Voldemort but you're afraid of my sister?" he says, eyeing Harry with disapproval. "If anything, I should be the nervous one. Honestly, you and my baby sister…" he mutters.

"She's not a baby anymore, Ron," Hermione answers cordially, while she puts her arms around Harry and deposits her gift on the table. "Happy birthday, Harry! And I'm sure everything is going to go great. We've gone over the proposal a hundred times, everything is going to be seamless," she reassures.

"Merlin," he says suddenly, pulling his fingers through his hair. "The ring! Hermione, I forgot the ring! How could I forget the… oh! Yeah, that's fine," he says while Hermione produces a velvet box from her purse and deposits it in Harry's suit chest pocket. He wears dress robes for the occasion and has asked all their friends to do the same. Surprisingly, even though her whole family and all their friends know she's going to be proposed, Ginny is still in the dark. How did they all manage to keep their mouths shut bewilders Hermione, but she's even more happy because of it.

She has accompanied Harry to pick the ring, a delicate, but hellishly expensive golden ring with an oval diamond. Harry has asked Arthur and Molly's permission to propose a few weeks before and it's the reason why Molly cries every time she comes face to face with her daughter, driving Ginny insane. Whenever she has asked her father about it, Arthur has just patted her on the head, as if she were a good dog, then turned his back to her to murmur something to himself.

Safe to say, she has not been too happy about it, even after Fred told her their parents might have ingested some of the "loony powders" he was testing for his joke shop. In fact, Molly is crying yet again and Ginny marches straight to Hermione, putting two desperate hands on her shoulders.

"Hermione, you've got to help me! Please undo anything that Fred has done to my parents before they turn into a bunch of lunatics. They're driving me insane and I have an important match for the Holyhead Harpies next week! I can't focus even on the damn practice time knowing my parents have lost their minds. You've got to help me!" she says, shaking her friend now and Hermione tries her best not to laugh. Ron just stuffs his mouth with the cookie he has stolen from Roxanne and Harry looks sheepish, hiding behind his two best friends.

"And why are we all wearing such formal robes?" she says, rolling her eyes. "I mean, no offence, Harry, since it's your birthday and all, but this dress cost a fortune."

"Didn't Harry pay for it?" Ron asks.

"Still a fortune. Harry, I think we need to have a discussion about our finances as a couple. I'm not comfortable with the way you splurge on me, really!" she says in a definitive tone, as if the matter is already settled.

Harry, already pale, swallows nervously and offers a lopsided grin. Hermione takes a sip of her drink to fight the roaring laughter that threatens to take over.

"Erm… Harry," she says when she has calmed down a bit. "Why don't you take Ginny outside for a bit?" she questions, trying to sound natural despite Ginny's narrowing eyes.

"Now?" Harry practically squeaks and she can the panic blocking his rational thoughts.

"Yes, now," she mouths behind Ginny then directs Ron to nudge him. Ron nods then bends Roxanne towards his best friend: the little child shrieks and then effectively slaps Harry with both her hands.

This seem to wake up Harry and he pulls Ginny's hand taking her outside.

"What in Merlin's name is the meaning of all this," she protests, following him begrudgingly.

Behind them, Hermione and Ron call George's name at the same time. At first, George totally misses the signal as he is too busy trying to convince his son not to eat the cat's tail, but then Ron whistles. George looks around him, then flicks his wand, causing all the bracelets that the guests have received upon entering The Burrow, to flicker with the message: "OUT, NOW!"

People gather in the garden as Hermione swishes her wand around, revealing the beautiful, huge tent she has masterfully hidden in plain sight, under a well-executed Concealing Charm. Ginny looks baffled by all of this, staring at the large entrance, through which the inside is displayed to all those rushing outside the house. Hermione flicks her wrist and a beautiful music begins and. before Ginny can wonder what the hell is happening, Harry has already taken her wand and they are waltzing on the improvised dance floor, all in view of their friends and family, who are looking them… teary eyed? Ginny arches an eyebrow at a sweating Harry who sways them around with trembling limbs and clammy hands. Ron comes behind Hermione and his wand makes round circles in the air causing hundreds of petals to surround them. Tulips, Ginny's favorite.

"I love you," Harry breathes out, mesmerized somehow as Ginny sways with him, disconcerted.

"I love you too, Harry, but what is..."

The remains of her sentence are swallowed by the noise of fireworks exploding in the night. They swiftly acquire the shape of constellations, bright stars lighting the July sky. Hermione removes the roof of the tent and Ginny watches in awe the flickering stars, dancing beautifully to the music. She feels Harry's hand slipping from hers and when she looks back, she sees him falling on his left knee, right before her. People gasp, Molly cries out loud and Harry's shaky hands move with difficulty, producing a velvet box from his pocket. He struggles to open it and it slips between his fingers various times until George's voice booms in the night:

"For Merlin's sake, mate, get on with it!"

Harry swallows, looking like a man about to witness his own slaughter, but he finally opens the small box. Ginny's eyes widen to the point of popping out and Harry is now even more frightened.

"Will you, Gin… Ginee… Gin," he stutters miserably, "Oh, God, this is where I was supposed to say "I love you first," he says, looking about to feign. "Oh, God, Ginny, I am proposing you. This is a proposal," he almost screams now because he has lost it. "Marry me, I beg you!"

Ginny throws herself in his arms, and they both fall backwards.

"I will, you fool," she says, strangling him in her fierce hug. "I will marry you!" she says louder and people clap and cheer while she kisses Harry as if her life depends on it. "I love you, you fool, I love you, I do," she says, crying now, trembling in her new fiancee's arms. Harry looks stupidly happy, a huge grin plastered on his face and shaky arms around what he thinks is the most wonderful woman in the world.

As people rush to congratulate them, Hermione doesn't dare to move from her spot. This is one of those powerful moments that enable people to produce a Patronus charm. A blissful, precious moment that stays with you through the worst. She's incredibly happy for them, feels they deserve it more than anyone else.

And still, there's this feeling, a distant voice in her head that nags her. Something that tells her she will never be allowed such happiness, that she has lost her chance already. She sighs and casts her eyes down.

In the silence, Ron's warm hand captures hers. Without saying a word, he guides her towards the happy couple.

 _It's going to be fine_ , his bright, blue eyes seem to say right before Harry embraces her tighter than ever before.

 **A/N: This has been nerve-wrecking to write! I would really appreciate if you could share your thoughts on this. Thank you for sticking with me!**


	9. Pleasure

**A/N: The author responds.**

 **1.** **Draco's POV** **. I've been asked when will I write things from Draco's point of view and why I never seem to let him have a voice. Well, while I do acknowledge it can be frustrating to keep him so sheltered in his own mind, I cannot really change the POV without revealing a major part of the plot. However, the very last chapter of this story will be from his POV. But we still have a couple of chapters to go.**

 **2.** **Hermione's passivity** **. I've been accused of portraying a much too passive Hermione, that is slightly different from who she was in the books. I stand by my choice, because I truly believe that the fear of being intimate and the first interaction with sexuality are things that can alter our own personality on way or another. Or reveal things about us that we have not been aware of. Having said that, I can assure you this passivity will be gone quite soon. ;)**

 **3\. I've warned you that this story has a** **mature rating** **for a reason, right?**

 **Enjoy and thank you for the wonderful, mind-blowing feedback!**

She used to dismiss the silly notion: it is, scientifically speaking, impossible to feel someone staring at you. And yet, at times, she catches herself victim of a persistent chill and when she turns around she sees Malfoy, eyes boring into hers for a few seconds, before he returns to whatever is he's doing and acts like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

There's this ongoing tension that has settled into every inch of her office, bouncing out the walls and slamming into her already harassed body.

It is the middle of August and she's counting on her fingers how many more months are left until the end of his internship. It feels that, as soon as he will be gone, her life will return to normal. For now, she just signs the documents that ensure than in September at least, he'll work for somebody else.

He has kept his determination to be the one dealing with Padma and now she barely sees the girl. She tries not to feel guilty about, focusing on S.P.E.W instead, just because next month her department will decide if House Elves will be paid or not. It was due to her efforts that they got holidays and uniforms in the first place, but it's not enough.

Especially since, there is an association of House Elves that plans to boycott her. You can change a lot of things in this world, but not people's – or House Elves' - mentality.

There are zero news about the Death Eaters and in the drowsiness of the hot summer days some people think they have imagined them. For how can something so evil exist in the stillness of the August days with so many Ministry employees on holiday and life going on as before?

Harry and Ginny will get married in October. She's going to be a bridesmaid. Ron is going to be one of the best men. There are some things she can count on in the world.

Except for his staring, Malfoy is silent most of the times. He follows carefully all the Wizengamot cases she's an active part of, goes on errands to the Library or to the other departments, without complaining or even acknowledging her. They don't have conversations. In fact, she feels like a machine, delivering tasks that he fulfills automatically. Ever since… the breakup, is this how she should call it? Ever since then he acts like a ghost, in and out of her office, but never ready to engage in a dialogue. It drives her mad and more than once she has felt the anger bubbling up: it had taken every ounce of self-restrain not to scream at the blonde.

Ginevra Keens seems to be in every place that he's in. Hermione catches her name in Harry and Ron's conversations too, and they both seem… amazed at her prowess _. Can sure fly on a broom_ , it's what Ron says. _Best curse blocker I've ever seen_ , Harry assures. She takes a deep breath, sips her drink and says nothing. She sees her on the halls of the Ministry, walking confidently as if she owns the place, or besides Malfoy, her arm always wrapped around him, her smile never faltering.

Until the morning that Hermione hears her screaming. She's standing right in front of a flustered Malfoy and her wand is poking his throat. She has a manic blaze in her eyes, her usual composed appearance reduce to the mien of a crazy person. Malfoy just stands in place, as if he has accepted whatever may come his way. His wand is nowhere in sight and he doesn't even speak for his own good. He just sits there, waiting for an outcome or another.

Hermione hides herself behind a statue and watches the scene with a forceful grip on her wand, ready to intervene if it gets ugly. In the end, a sort of surreal calmness comes over Ginevra because her eyes become the spitting image of a deserted, stormy ocean and she lowers her wand. Her other hand caresses his cheek with such emotion that Hermione feels this moment is more intimate than the one she has witnessed in the dark alley. Ginevra's mouth raises to capture his, but it's a short and chaste kiss.

Then she is gone and Hermione sees him breathing out in relief.

Back in her office, she itches to ask if they have separated. And what does that mean for them…If it still means anything. If she wants it still. Just to stifle her curiosity.

Clinical, medical love-making. No, calculated sex. No, scratch that again, losing her virginity in a controlled manner. No, giving it away to someone who looks like he knows what he's doing. No, agreeing to have sex with the guy she once despised.

In the end, she decides she has to let go, only if to free herself from the burden of her emotions. There are signs of another war out in the world. There is a life that goes on regardless of this choice.

Perhaps it is, after all, just sex.

Perhaps there are no fairytales, or if there are, they are only granted to people like Harry and Ginny.

It's one of those days when she's drowned in paperwork. She hears Malfoy busying himself in the adjacent office and she knows he's going to stay late too. Her stomach gurgles in protest and she decides to have a small dinner break far from it all. Ever the polite person, she asks him if he wants anything, but he just grumbles in response.

She goes across the street, to this hybrid of café bar where Muggleborns and Half-Bloods usually mingle with Muggles. It has a sordid reputation among most of the Ministry employees because it is considered the place most wizards and witches come looking for affairs. But it's also frequented by those with a Muggle background just because they like to feel like they belong to both worlds. It's a quite elegant place too and the coziness and good drinks come with a hefty price tag.

She has just finished her meal when she spots a flustered looking Padma making her way to the bar. What captures Hermione's attention is the tightness of her dress, which is clearly not the same the girl wore for work. But the courageous dive of her cleavage is even more baffling. It's a black, beautiful dress that hugs her curves in the most flattering manner, but Padma still looks a little bit out of place. She's alone, or perhaps waiting for someone, and sits at the bar ordering a cocktail. In her corner, Hermione has the advantage of observing without being seen.

Not two minutes later, a man in his forties, the kind that you wouldn't bring home to meet your parents, sits down next to her. He wears a suit that speaks money and gives Padma such a lewd look that Hermione feels the impulse to get up and slap the smile off his face. To her surprise though, Padma smiles back. It is now engaged in conversation even. Curiosity gets the better out of her and Hermione changes her seat, moving closer so she can hear their dialogue

Honestly, she wants to hex that stupid moron! The conversation revolves around the man's ego, his successes. And sports cars. It is clearly beneath the level of Padma's intellect and, in her corner, Hermione fumes. But instead of disagreeing with him, Padma accepts his complacency, offering encouraging meek smiles and enduring the man's touches, even as they get more and more inappropriate. She accepts his drinks too and they keep coming. When the man licks his lip, stands up and offers his arm to her, Hermione has decided she had enough.

"Excuse me," she says out loud, stepping in between them and Padma's eyes widen in recognition. "Excuse me," she says to the annoyed man now. "I think you're bothering my girlfriend."

"She doesn't look like she is bothered," the man spits, not letting go of Padma's hand. Hermione searches Padma's face for something and the brunette frees her arm from the unpleasant grip, blushing.

The man grunts in disapproval, then sizes Hermione up.

"Her girlfriend, eh? Look, I have no problem with this type of thing. I'm fine with both of you," he says, encouraged. "I think we can still have fun. All three of us."

It takes Hermione a moment to get his meaning, but then she has to stop herself from slapping the guy. From her chair, Padma tugs at her sleeve, whispering something Hermione cannot hear because her blood boils from indignation. The barman steps in, asking the girls if they are okay.

"Yes," Hermione grits, "this _gentleman_ here was just leaving," she says, effectively blocking Padma from view.

The man looks like his bruised ego cannot take the hit. He drops a couple of cash on the bar, then spits out:

"Fucking lesbians!" And then to Padma: "You're paying for your own drinks, tease!"

Hermione makes a move to run after him and show him a piece of mind, when she feels Padma's hand on her arm.

"He's not worth it," she says simply then casts her eyes down.

Hermione doesn't know what to do now. Anything she might say runs the chance of being either patronizing, either judgmental. Padma saves her the dilemma:

"Thank you," she says softly, her eyes glued to her glass. "Real idiot, wasn't he? I seem to have a talent for picking the worst of them sometimes."

"I'm not here to judge," Hermione says, avoiding to lock eyes with the other girl. "It was really not my place to do anything, but I saw the way he was talking to you… Merlin, Padma, he was a real asshole! There must be some proper men out there, fit for someone smart like you," she babbles, feeling way out of her comfort zone.

Padma gives a small smile: "I'm sure you've heard this line before, but perhaps I wasn't looking for Mr. Right, but more like a Mr. Right Now," she says, avoiding Hermione's face.

"You mean, like a one night stand?" Hermione blurts out ridiculously.

Padma just shrugs. "I'm not earning any points for myself, am I?"

Hermione bites her lip, takes a seat at the bar.

"I just don't understand, Padma. Why? Why would someone like you settle for something like this?"

Padma pulls her lower lip between her teeth and Hermione cringes at how condescending she has sounded. Clearly, her lack of experience doesn't do her any favors. But then she gets an answer:

"Don't you ever get lonely?" Padma says quietely, playing with the straw of her cocktail. "Doesn't it ever feel like you just can't find the right guy…" Then she pauses and gives Hermione a sheepish look: "I'm so –"

"Don't say you're sorry!" Hermione threatens.

An unwelcomed awkwardness settles in the space between them and Hermione orders a drink to justify her being there. Padma shifts uncomfortably besides her and Hermione tries to pinpoint the exact moment when she has started making those around her feel so wretchedly uncomfortable. Padma cowers, Ron never knows if he oversteps a boundary these days and even Harry is not sure how to act in her presence. But she's not the type of person to keep a grudge.

"Can we just forget about what happened with Ron?" she says out loud to the girl besides her. "Neither of us wants to be reminded of it every time we find ourselves sitting next to each other."

"I'd love to," Padma murmurs, still avoiding her eyes.

"Why?" Hermione asks sometime later and sees Padma cringing at the question. "No, I mean, why would you let a guy like that hit on you even if you're lonely? I've seen dozens of wizards trying to get your attention. I've been… I always thought you must be so happy, that you're one of those girls who just seems to be blessed. When things would get bad I would look up to you sometimes, "Hermione confesses. "You were beautiful, but kind, smart, but not intimidating like me and people were always gravitating towards you like you were some sort of a beacon in the dark. A lighthouse to guide those around when the storm comes. So I… I can't figure it out, I guess."

Padma takes a moment, plays with the straw some more. An older gentleman passes and gives them hungry looks but none of the girls notice him.

"Something happened after the war. My father died, you know? And I… I never had too much luck with love anyway: those who wanted me, I despised, those I loved were either not interested, either…"

"…they had someone else already," Hermione finishes for her.

Padma nods. "I think I'm just a screwed up cliché, but I get so restless when it comes to relationships. I've had… some drama in my past let's say and now I just get so lost in a thrill or another. "

"But don't you feel… used?" Hermione asks.

"I use the men I date as much as they use me. It's a mutual understanding. And really, they're not all like the guy tonight. Sometimes men only want to feel less lonely too. I'm not an innocent damsel getting played by the big bad wolf, if that's what you think."

"I didn't mean to imply that, I'm –"

"-don't say you're sorry," Padma says, but she smiles. "I'm a young woman, in a bar, looking for a warm body on a Tuesday night. I'm not ready for declarations of love, or walks on the beach or whatever. The only miracle I'm looking for is a damn good orgasm!" Padma giggles and, despite herself, Hermione feels herself laugh too.

"How does it work?" Hermione asks a bit later, pretending to be interested in whatever the bartender's mixing.

"Picking men at the bar you mean?" Padma asks.

"No… Casual sex. Doesn't it leave you feeling… empty? Like something has been taken from you? I'm not judging, I just want to know," Hermione asks, wondering when did she get so brazen with her questions.

Padma hesitates for a few moments, but only because she tries to find the right words to explain it.

"It's… unconventional. Certainly not something I'd share with my mother. Or with Parvati. But I'm a grown woman: I might not be ready for relationships but I have my needs and desires. Even my fantasies. And I want to fulfill them before I settle down. Sometimes I just want a guy who I know will cook me breakfast and buy me flowers, because I want to test how that feels like, even if only for a short while. And sometimes I want that mind-boggling orgasm. I am not interested in the story of the man underneath me, I just want his body, that feral feeling… well, you know what I'm talking about," Padma smiles and Hermione aches just a little. In all probability Padma assumed Hermione and Ron had experienced what Padma and Ron did, the feeling they both mirrored in the throes of the orgasm she witnessed.

"It's liberating you know?" Padma says again, interrupting her musings. "The feeling of power it gives you when you know you don't depend on a man and can ride him for a whole night but it's perfectly acceptable to kick him out of your apartment afterwards. The surge of confidence that comes with being able to orgasm as hard as your partner. And well," Padma says, blushing a little this time, "it's quite mind-blowing when you get to fulfill a fantasy or another. Us girls," she says, winking at Hermione, "are more creative that guys. To be able to bring those fantasies to life it's such an experience… I'm never freer than in that moment. I never feel more like myself then when I have the courage to ask for what I want. It's wonderfully delightful," Padma finishes, giggling and Hermione can't tell if it's from the drink or from her own little speech.

Hermione feels the idea taking shape, feels her own indecisiveness dissipating. Then, before she can change her mind, she looks Padma straight in the eyes and says quickly:

"Can we switch dresses?"

Padma watches her in disbelief, so Hermione goes on. "Can I burrow your dress for the evening? I promise I'll bring it back to you washed and intact."

Padma arches an eyebrow: "You've got plans for tonight?"

"Yeah?" Hermione says meekly. "Well, I…"

"Let's go to the bathroom," Padma says, then pays for both their drinks and leads Hermione in the direction of the women's stalls.

"We've received a memo from the Aurors Department, so if you could just do your job and…"

Malfoy stops mid-sentence, one hand waving the paper memo in the air, the other limp at his side. His gaze travels along her body slowly, taking her in, seemingly noticing every little thing, from the way the fabric clings to her every curve to the way her breasts seem to press against each other on the limited space of her cleavage. She sees his jaw clenching, his eyes darkening.

"What memo?" she says instead, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

He swallows and when he speaks again, his voice sounds scratchy.

"We have look over some documents. They're too confidential so we'll have to…" he stops, breathes in, stares at her as she moves towards him. Then there's an animal like sound that comes from somewhere within him: "Fuck the memos!" he says, before she finds herself thrown at one wall of her office, his mouth hungrily on hers.

All the pent up frustration dissolves in his arms.

The way her body shivers under his touch makes her feel like someone who has been wandering in the desert for months only to be reminded of what water tastes like. She wraps her arms around him eagerly and Malfoy wastes no time in teasing her mouth with his, his tongue hot and restless against hers. His hands roam her body with fervor and it feels like being coated in honey. He pulls one of her legs to hook it around his hip and then she feels him, hard and ready, and she doesn't hesitate for a second.

This doesn't feel dirty. Or wrong. This feels like pleasure. Pure, undiluted pleasure.

Malfoy releases her mouth and his breath comes out in short gasps. She's dizzy from it all, but then his tongue darts out to caress her earlobe, his teeth grazing it lightly and her eyes roll to the back of her head. She feels her arms forcing themselves to hold on to him, because her legs have become too frail to support herself.

This is it. This is what she wants. Almost.

"Ginevra," she manages to rasp as one of his hands fondles her breast and the other grips her hip. "I can't if you… not both of us… Oh, Lord, there!" she cries as he sucks on a particular spot underneath her left ear.

"Mmmm? It's done," he hums, struggling to breathe, "I'm not sleeping with her anymore." Her hips roll towards him. "Fucking Merlin, Granger," he says.

"Not Merlin, me," she says, as her hands grab his cheeks and she tilts her head so she can kiss that sinful mouth of his, all tantalizing full lips that she can devour for days.

He moans in her mouth, electrified, but when it starts to get insanely good, he breaks the kiss, abandons his grip on her hip and stares hard at her.

"Do you trust me, Granger?" he says, his fingers tracing patterns on the skin of her exposed cleavage. "I need to hear it: do you trust me?"

She nods, but when he frowns, she grabs his shoulders and pulls his mouth back to hers.

"Yes," she declares between desperate kisses. "Yes, I trust you," she adds, as she sucks on his bottom lip. She pulls him by his shirt, bringing their bodies even closer while she kisses him savagely. In the meantime, her hands work fast on the buttons of his shirt and they refuse to be stopped by his meddling hands. The fight is short and sooner rather than later, his burning skin is up to exploration, as reason deserts her. She touches him unhindered, feels the thumping heartbeat underneath. It's the ultimate prove that he can't control himself either, that her need is not one sided. Her palm slides down lower, her fingers taking their sweet time while he shivers under her touch, then lower, on his belt, then lower on his groin. He hisses and stares at her as time stops in between their heaving chests and hungry eyes.

"No," he whispers when his tongue trails around the shell of her ear. "Not now," he promises when his hand sneaks in her bra and he caresses her nipple, making her head lull to the side.

There is one indecisive moment and then Malfoy slides to his knees, before her. She means to ask him what he's doing when strong hands bunch up the fabric of her dress up to her waist. Two fingers caress her through the fabric of her knickers and she leans back reflexively, her head hitting the bookshelf behind her. Her knees buckle under the sudden surge of electricity that goes through her and her limbs are bound under the spell of a thousand chills. He repeats the moment and her head hits the shelf again and she thinks she sees stars for a moment.

She places shaky fingers on his shoulders and whimpers. He sneaks one finger underneath her knickers, slides it along her folds. She hears her own moan echoing around the office.

"You're so wet, Granger, that I could come by only thinking of being buried inside you," he whispers in a husky voice and her knees buckle again. "I can smell you from here," he breathes out and then bends to lick her through the cotton layer, making her whole body constrict under the strain of the heavy jolt that courses through her. "You taste like I'm going to lose my mind," he says finally before pulling her knickers down and throwing them aside. He pulls her legs apart.

She means to stop him but in the next moment his thumbs open her folds and then they slide down the wet flesh at a torturous slow pace. One of his fingers circles her wet entrance and when she dares to breathe again an actual cry comes out because his tongue is on her, licking fast. He grips her hips to steady her and when she squirms, mumbling incoherently because she feels on the verge of a collapse, he brings one of her legs on his shoulder and then his tongue delves deeper.

There is a scalding heat inside her, burning her reason and she doesn't realize she actually pushes herself against his lapping tongue. His head moves between her legs restlessly and her fingers weave themselves into his hair. One of his hands grabs her ass and gives it a squeeze, making her moan out his name. The sounds only makes his moves more frantic and when he sucks on her clit she cries something indecipherable. His tongue laves at her, either in up and down motions, either in small circles that make the hairs on her skin stand.

She's a web of overly responsive nerves and skin drenched in her own sweat as her cries get louder. She becomes desperate when his tongue pushes against her entrance, diving the littlest bit in, but enough to make her go frenzy with desire. He repeats the move again, in an out until she is nothing but a savage, energy against that hot tongue that sends waves of pleasure that surpass anything she has felt before.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," she hears herself whispering, but it only provokes him more and she feels him nipping at her folds, feels herself grabbing fistfuls of his hair as his tongue flicks over her throbbing clitoris over and over again.

The rush comes in again, the same feeling of speeding towards an indefinite destination and she grabs her own breasts to release some of the tension, but it only builds more powerfully.

"Please," she hears herself saying, consumed by the ravaging desire. "Please, Draco!"

His name on her lips has the desired effect. He digs his nails into her bum and then one of his hands comes between them and he inserts one long finger inside her, pumping restlessly while his tongue flicks over her clitoris again and again. The muscles of her vagina clamp around his finger and she moves up and down on him until she cannot take it anymore and she implodes.

She's in a free-fall. She cannot hear her own cry, as it echoes around the room, nor she can feel her nails sinking into his scalp. The pleasure shatters her, shoots through her like quick poison, controls every little inch of her body. It's like being made aware of a knowledge only reserved for Gods and she shakes powerfully, slipping from her place, until she's down on the floor and in his arms.

When she regains consciousness and the world comes back into focus, she sees his eyes fixed on her, dominant, feral, as his thumb wanders along the length of her bottom lip. She doesn't have the power to speak so she stands still in his arms, glad they're strong enough to hold her, but soft enough to offer comfort. Usually, this is the time when the consequences of her actions come back to her in the form of loud voices in her head but this time, everything is still, save for his troubled breathing.

Much too soon, he untangles himself from her and moves a bit to the left, to lean on the leg of her desk. She watches him, the tortured expression on his face, the difficulty in his moves and it comes across as unfair, especially since she notices his bulging groin. She moves towards him, ignoring him when he shakes his head. Her fingers move along his shaft, through his pants. His member twitches under her touch and it startles her, causing her to jump back a little. Malfoy smirks at her reaction so, determined, she pull down his zipper. He stiffens, gives her a warning look.

But he's too weak to put up a fight and her hand sneaks in his boxers. She grabs him now, small fingers wrapping themselves around him as he curses out loudly, his eyes wild like an animal's. His whole body radiates heat and Hermione gives a tentative squeeze, but it's enough to wrench a moan from his usually composed self. Underneath her fingers he's a discovery in itself. Hard as metal, but soft to the touch, with searing hot skin that gets even warmer in her hands. She moves tentatively, up and down along his length and he lets his head back. It confirms that she too, can cause pleasure. She can take control.

She leaves him for a second and bends to pull down his pants and boxers, just down his bum, so his erection can spring free. He complies with the movement, but keeps his gaze controlled when she openly stares at his penis.

 _Now how will that ever fit inside her?_

She actually brings two fingers together, the ones that she has used to masturbate herself with, then places them near him, to compare. He's so much thicker.

Malfoy chuckles at her gesture, throaty laughs that startle her, but only make her more determined. When she wraps her hand around him again he's rendered speechless and resumes to look at her questioningly. Her fingers move up and down, up and down and then her thumb circles his tip, moving past the moisture there and making him moan. Emboldened by his response, she repeats the gesture.

He looks like something carved out of a dream. Shirtless, sitting on his bum with his pants pulled down and his head thrown back in pleasure, he presses his palms on the floor as if wanting to feel something steady before he is lost in his rapture. Hermione cannot stop herself: she moves closer and places a quick kiss on his mouth. He stops her by trapping her lower lip between his teeth and pulling. Her hand moves on him, as his tongue battles with hers and they are both breathless.

"Show me," she whispers to him, staring him right in the eyes. "Show me how you do it," she says again.

He brings his right hand on top of hers and they move at the same time now, his gaze focused on her face, rather than their hands. She is all a picture of curiosity and thirst for knowledge, as she follows his every move, squeezing when his hands apply pressure on hers, teasing his testicles with the other when he points to them.

It's all so thrilling that she gets lost in their movements, unaware of anything else, but the reactions of the hard member, pulsating under the touches. He has no more comebacks now, but looks lost in his own fire, dedicated to the irregular tempo of their moves. Only his eyes strain to stay focused on hers and it's yet again a look that Hermione doesn't recognize.

She feels the pressure between her own legs returning and moves her thighs together. She is suddenly torn between watching him come and have him inside her, showing her what pleasure is made of. Without thinking about it twice, she climbs on top of him swiftly, making sure his penis is nestled between her folds. It feels so unrealistically good that she fears she has stepped into an alternate reality.

"Granger," he calls out alarmed. "No. No, no, no! Not like that!"

"Like what?" she breathes out, dazed.

"Trust me, I want to ram into you until you forget your own name but I will not be taking your virginal self in your own office." Then he pauses, looking around them. "Not the first time, at least."

"But I want to," she murmurs, hating that he has chosen that particular bad time to be considerate.

He groans loudly and moves easily, making all kinds of shivers run through her.

"Just touch me for now," he whispers, nuzzling her neck and easily pushing her to the side. "Touch me," he says again and she's lost in that mercurial gaze.

She obeys. But she moves faster now, alert to every change in his breath, careful to notice, despite her own growing need, every twitch in his muscles, every shiver in his bones. As if he heard her thoughts, he sneaks his own hand between her legs and then it's a frenzy of moans coming from both of them and the broken movements of two sweaty hands until she lets go again and he breaks apart with a loud cry as jets of white liquid spurt out from his tip and his whole body jerks powerfully.

He falls on his back after that, spent and looking as if he has reached Nirvana. He even smiles lazily to her, before shaking his head and laughing at something only he seems to understand. Her gaze shifts to the white liquid on his abdomen, gleaming in the night light. Unblinking, Hermione looks at his semen with innate curiosity until he uses his own shirt to wipe it off and comes to kiss her.

There's a certain tenderness in his face now, but he still rushes to zip up his trousers. When he kisses her again there's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. When she breathes in, she inhales the scent of both their sexes and it awakens an atavistic instinct, a need to connect with him completely.

"Come home with me," she whispers, not bothering to grab her own discarded underwear from the floor of her pristine office. "I don't want this to stop."

His amusement deepens, but it's a serene smile the one that graces his features, a post coital bliss that makes him look younger. His hair is ruffled, victim of her formerly restless fingers, his cheeks are still red and there's a peaceful expression on his face that she finds most endearing. She too, feels courageous and more than ready to feel him on top of her. She doesn't want to wait anymore.

"A bit greedy, aren't we?" he teases. "And that dress, Granger… I didn't know you possess something so… enthralling."

She stands, tongue in cheek, because she won't tell him it's not her dress even if he might have recognized Padma's perfume all over the fabric.

Perhaps it's what turned him on, a nasty voice says, but she dismisses it.

"I've tasted myself on your lips," she says, wander in her voice. "I… you made me come."

"About time, don't you think?" he says, a bit drowsy, kissing her lazily.

"Draco," she says, enjoying how the sound of his name seems to make him weak. "No more playing. No more arguments. I want to…"

"Shag me like a pixie on drugs?"

"… give my virginity to you."

She has said in a weak voice, but she can tell he has heard because his shoulders square under her touches and he is silent for a full minute. She wants to inhale him, to taste him on her tongue, to feel his weight on her. Her fingers trail hazardous paths between his shoulder blades as her head rests on his chest.

"Not tonight, Granger," he says and she breaks a little. "Soon," he says, raising her chin so her eyes can meet his. "I promise."

He fastens his robe and walks out of her office without another word. She still needs an hour or two until the haze in her head clears enough for her to be able to go home.

"I think we need to discuss contraception," she finally says the next morning, interrupting him on the way to his desk.

He leans on the doorframe and raises an eyebrow.

"Isn't a bit too late to bring this into conversation? Why, only last night you were asking me to sink into-"

"I've been taking precautions ever since that evening of the attack in the restaurant," she says, quickly, avoiding his gaze.

"A bit presumptuous, weren't we?" comes his rather unsurprising reply. "I take precautions every day of my life, ever since I've been sexually active, Granger," he drawls, rather bored. "So we're safe."

"What about sexually transmitted diseases? I mean, you've been with some people before…"

"I'm clean," he replies, unimpressed.

"You don't know that," she insists. Then she clears her throat. "I mean, Ginevra…"

"Ginevra was clean too."

"Ginevra had multiple, concomitant lovers."

He frowns at her.

"Granger, do you want me to get a full St. Mungo's check-up before I bed you?"

"That would be nice, yes," she says, busying herself with two folders whose titles she doesn't even check.

He wants to reply, but in the very moment Padma bolts in through the double doors, runs to them with a frightful expression plastered all over her face.

"Ginny," she finally says when she meets Hermione's worried face. "They took her. The Death Eaters kidnapped Ginny Weasley."

 **A/N: Oh, my! I'm very, very eager to hear what you think about this one!** **J**


	10. Battlefield

**A/N: There is a sex scene in this chapter where consent is not given in an explicit manner. Please be warned.**

Hermione, Padma and Draco run through the corridors of the Ministry, towards the one place where they know madness will reign: Department of Aurors.

"When did it happen?" Hermione asks Padma as they rush between the crowds of people.

"An hour ago. She was just leaving the Quidditch field the Holyhead Harpies are using for practice," Padma rushes in between harsh breaths, as they make their way through the startled witches and wizards. "Twelve Death Eaters showed up and they killed one of her colleagues. They cast The Dark Mark and set their quarters on fire…"

Hermione runs faster. She is about to bump into a burly wizard when Draco's arm extends before her, making her come to a halt. She elbows her way through the people gathered in a circle and, in the middle of the commotion, Shacklebolt is trying to restrain both Harry and Ron, blocking their spells with his own wand.

"We need to go now!" Harry shouts, rage in his eyes. "Let us go!"

"You two are walking directly into a trap!" Kingsley says calmly. "The moment you Apparate out of here , they're going to take you down, one by one, like flies. And what for? Neither of you can help Miss Weasley if you're dead!"

Ron lowers his wand, a look of utter despair on his face. Hermione flings herself at him and Ron opens up his arms to welcome her almost instinctively. Padma and Draco watch as the two of them hug and the brunette does not misses the deep frown that marrows the blonde's features. Ron is crying easily into Hermione's hair. Harry still points his wand as Shacklebolt but, soon enough, his gaze meets his best friend's face and he whispers, pained:

"They are going to kill her. And it's my fault. They took her because we're together. If I wouldn't have proposed…"

"Look at me, both of you: we'll get her back, you hear me?" Hermione shouts, not giving a damn about who hears her. "Stop blaming yourself, Harry! There's no force on Earth that can stop us from bringing her back, am I understood? Nothing bad is going to happen to her."

"We have to go now, Hermione!" Harry demands, untangling himself from their hug. "The Death Eaters have left a note…" he trails off and then hands her a piece of paper. Touching it makes Hermione's skin prickle: the only thing on the rumpled parchment is an address somewhere in Manchester.

"We can't go there! It's most certainly a trap," Shacklebolt says, imploringly, in her direction, as if he recognizes her reasoning can be trust. Hermione hesitates, looks towards Harry, shaking with anger and then bows her head in reply. The man sighs heavily, straightens himself, calls for enforcements and prepares to go to war.

Hermione sees Padma to her left and Draco to her right as they all listen the instructions for the oncoming battle. Half of the Ministry is up for a fight, even though the Aurors ask them to abort, go home to their families. They sit up straight, holding hands and reading themselves for the worst.

Jets of green light fly all around them. The moment they Apparate, hexes rain from the August sky like arrows. Hermione ducks beneath a "For Sale" sign, in front of someone's house, getting separated from the group. In front of her, dozens of Aurors move like Snitches, fast on their brooms and smart with their hexes. Hermione sees clouded figures falling down like shot birds during a useless hunt.

She catches sigh of Padma across the courtyard, as a group of two Death Eaters hurl Killing Curses in their direction. A jet of green light flies towards Padma and Hermione chokes a sob as desperate eyes scan her surroundings. She thanks every deity she knows when she sees Padma rolling underneath the artisanal well, as another jet of green misses her by a hair's breadth.

"Down," Padma yells and Hermione falls to the ground, biting her tongue forcefully in the process. The girls see Ginevra Keens, flitting between the hexes hurled at her. She screams one hex after the other, at a formidable pace and blocks all "Stupefy" and "Reducto" curses that swerve in her direction. Hermione and Padma both aim at the same time, taking down the two Death Eaters and Hermione notices Ginevra's murderous glare right before she bolts for a cover, running to the backyard.

Something heavy hits the back of her head, knocking the breath out of her. She is numb for a moment only before a searing pain lashes at her from the inside, burning like Wildfire. The blow is followed by a "Cruciatus" and she screams until her voice is hoarse. Her body is a poisoned nest of pain as her lungs constrict and a trickle of blood, leaves her mouth and slides down her jaw. It stops after what feels like centuries and her haggard breath only prolongs the pain. She tries to stay still, flattening her palms on a rough surface while noise reaches her eardrums as through a funnel, distant and blurred. Not knowing if she will be cursed again, Hermione tries to crawl from the open field, but she finds her joints stuck in place, as if she is stunned.

The pain burns while the smell of scorched skin reaches her nostrils and makes her want to vomit. She flexes her fingers, just to see if they're moving at all: they are covered in blood, and in the distance she hears something exploding. She cannot find her wand and an overwhelming panic grips her, blowing away every remains of her courage.

"I don't want to die!" she says, her whole body shuddering as she tries to crawl away from her spot. Her battered muscles hurt and she feels on the verge of fainting. There is no one in sight, but as she strains her neck she sees the Dark Mark etched upon the summer sky like a blemish on a flawless canvas. Its horrifying edges expand and constrict, making it look alive and ready to descend upon her with fury.

"I don't want to die!" she screams again, struggling to crawl despite the metallic taste of blood that has settled in her mouth. The rough asphalt bruises the skin of her palms and wrists, cutting through, but it's the throbbing, unforgiving pain in her left knee that scares her. It pulsates with such intensity every time she moves that she has to fight the blind spots that cloud her vision. She grits her teeth and tries to move again, only to feel the pain in the back of her head getting more vicious by the moment.

Someone casts a killing spell.

"I don't want to die, I don't want to die," Hermione whispers in frenzy, crawling further even though it kills her all the same. Her heart hammers against her sternum.

There is a fight quite close to her. She can almost feel the lick of the dark spells, as the air smells horridly like death and disaster. The unbearably hot day scorches her reason, as the dust in the air clogs her nostrils, making it harder and harder to breathe.

This is not how she leaves this world. This is not why she has spent her youth fighting, not what she envisioned. She does not deserve to die so she clings to the thought of fields of cherry trees, familiar faces and the halls of Hogwarts.

 _I have not met with Luna and I promised her…_

She cannot leave this world yet, not while adrenaline is pumped through her veins and her mind is stuck on made-up images of the future. A future of balmy days and laughter and great achievements. The pain enhances her sensorial memory: she is reminded of her parents' hugs, the delicate weight of her friends' heads as they lay on her shoulders, the lips of a blonde, frowning man as they trail across her skin…

Distantly, she thinks she can hear Padma casting a Stunning Spell, yelled with all her might. Death is close. She can feel it bending over her, hurrying to kiss her recklessly, like a Dementor gone astray…

"I don't want to die," she whispers again, feeling an abundance of blood on her tongue and she gurgles, trying to spit it out. She coughs instead, chocking on the red liquid that spurts from her mouth and her lungs hurt in protest, her eyes widen from the effort.

Two figures on brooms fly above her but she barely registers it.

 _I don't want to die._

Someone screams above her, a man's voice, and in the next moment he crashes on the pavement with a loud thud, a few steps from her. Hermione's elbows give in and her skull hits the asphalt when she loses consciousness. The last thing she registers is the lifeless form of a Death Eater. After that, everything is blurred.

 _I am about to die._

When she wakes, it's almost dark in the quiet room. Shadows of tree branches, swaying in the wind, wash across the blank wall before her. She's sitting sprawled on an unfamiliar bed and the room she's in smells like clean sheets, medicine and old furniture. Everything is still, much too still and the panic coils around her stomach again, makes her jerk up in panic.

"I don't want to die!" she screams out and the pain awakens with the gesture, making her slack her shoulders under the weight of a strong, rattling shiver. She winces.

"Lie down!" a cool voice says in the dark, but before panic can attack her she sees the dark grey eyes of Draco Malfoy as he looms over her body. She scans his face quickly and when she detects no mortal wounds she breathes out in relief. Then, as electrocuted, she is reminded of the horrors of the day. He lays in an armchair right next to her bed.

"Ginny!" she cries out in a hoarse voice. Then her hands jolt up, her eyes widen: "Harry. Ron! Padma!" she says, still tasting blood inside her mouth.

"Everyone is alright," he says as he puts a cool hand on her forehead. He keeps it there for a few seconds, studying her face with medical care, before declaring out loud: "You still run up a fever, lie down! You're alright, Granger, not that you ever bother to care for yourself."

"Where are the others?" she says, ignoring his remark. Then her hands fly out to grab his shirt: "Tell me what happened."

He's taken aback by her brazen gesture at first, but then he scowls and removes her hands from him.

"I told you, everyone is alright. Shackebolt is that not the dolt that your friends are. And that Patil is a genius if you ask me. Most of the Death Eaters have been captured and are now in Azkaban. Ginny Weasley is in St. Mungo's sporting several wounds, but none of them is mortal. Potter is with her. Weasley is alive, rest assured, you can still run to him and have that ghastly reunion and rekindle old flames," he spats as if the taste of his own words sicken him.

Hermione breathes out in relief and collapses back on the pillow. The pain still clouds her judgement, but it ebbs way, second by second until she notices the range of empty vials and jars of balms sitting on the bedside table: he has mended her wounds again. A bunch of blood-stained sheets are bunched up in a corner and the image makes her cringe with apprehension. The agitation takes hold of her once more.

"Yes, that's your blood," he drawls, following her gaze. "I kept the sheets as a testimony to your stupidity. You careless twit! Throwing yourself in the middle of the battlefield like a first year Hufflepuff. Years with those two stupid ogres must have erased any instinct of self-preservation you might have had," he says, his voice dripping with anger.

"Draco," she whispers just so she cannot hear her own voice, "did anyone die?"

He pauses, a pregnant pause that has her in tethers.

"An Auror," he says quietly and she feels a tear gliding down her cheek as she breathes in with difficulty. "All the rest are fine. It's over," he adds, although she does not believe him.

She hears him moving and then his thumb wipes the tear from her face without a word. She feels the warmth of his skin and grabs his palm, keeping it over her cheek. She closes her eyes.

"Where are we?" she murmurs, grappling with her anxiety.

"A Muggle house. The owners are gone on holidays, it seems."

His voice sounds hallow. Hermione notices he shifts in his armchair a lot as he fumbles with a clean towel. He sits up straight in his armchair, rigid, but his lips move bizarrely, needlessly, because no words come out. His apprehension agitates her, nurtures something disastrous in her bones. In the silence of the room she thinks she hears echoes of ugly noises. Wheezes of breath, screams of fallen victims, dark curses shot at her. Her chest constricts.

"I don't want to die," she whispers to him, pleadingly.

He frowns, as if he doesn't understand.

"You're safe, Granger. It's over."

Blood rushes to her head, dizzying her. She grips one of his hands, squeezing it until his knuckles turn pale white.

"I don't want to die," she says louder and the room spins, until she feels she's thrown into the battlefield again. A part of her is aware that they are standing alone in the middle of a bedroom, that it's night outside and that there is a perfect stillness in the room. But another part, far more commanding, makes her think she's still on the hot asphalt, crawling to a safe haven or another. Her knee jerks with a pain that it isn't even there anymore and Draco stares down at her with an alarmed look in his big eyes.

"Granger," he whispers, not knowing what to expect.

"They are coming for us, Draco," she says, pulling herself upright by grabbing his shirt forcefully. "They are going to kill us," she whispers terrified, her voice breaking at the end. His warm palms cover her cheekbones.

"Granger, you're safe now, I promise. Don't let the panic take hold. Look at me. Granger, look at me I said! It's alright. You're alright."

She shakes her head, slaps his shoulder, then, like a rabid cat, digs her nails into the skin of his neck, dragging them down towards his shoulders.

"We have to run," she says, staring at the red lines she leaves on his skin. "Look what they've done to you, the marks they left. They will murder us, don't you see? Draco, I don't want to die," she pleads, trying to sit up straight. "Draco, please…"

He takes her wrists in his hand, stares at her hard.

"This is panic attack, Granger! Listen to me," he insists when she shakes her head and looks around like a mad woman looking for escape. "Fight your way through. You're safe, I swear! I got you, don't you know that no one will hurt you anymore?"

There is a tenderness in his voice that stops her, breaks through her living nightmare. His expression is no longer contained, hardened. There is a raw, pleading gaze directed at her, as his fingers reach out easily to caress her jaw.

"Hermione…" he whispers. "I'm here. Don't you see?"

She's up on her feet, ignoring the tormenting pain in her knee and the dull one in the back of her head.

"Draco…" she says, her eyes moving fast from their left to her right, as she claws to his shoulders. "Draco, I don't want to die. I am not ready to die, oh, please, I fought so hard to stay alive, it's not my time to go."

"I know," he says softly, playing with a strand of her hair.

"I want to live!" she presses, bobbing her head up and down to enforce the sentence, unaware of the wild look in her eyes, or that she has the demeanor of a lunatic.

At some point through her frantic movements, her palms come in contact with the bare skin on his collarbone. She fixates on the ridge there, then brushes her fingertips over it again, eliciting a small sigh from him, no more than a little hushed breath. His eyes, when they meet her, are large and soft, a pool of silver that draws her in. And just like that, there's a fire in her bones that has nothing to do with the pain. Her eyes lit up and her hands tear the fabric of his shirt apart.

"Now, Draco," she demands, peeling the cloth of his shoulders. "Let's do it now, because they will kill us soon!"

"Hermione…" he tries, trying to pry her hands away. "There is no one else here…"

"Sure there is, Draco, don't be stupid. And don't be loud, because they'll kill you too," she says, whispering harshly. "I've heard them planning your murder. Please, let's be alive one more time before they kills us. At least, I'll have this before I'm gone. Draco, we should do it quick. I don't want to die, I don't want to die," she says again and again and he falters.

In one swift movement, she removes the oversized T-shirt she's wearing and stands before him only in her underwear. Draco stares at her exposed breasts, sucks in a large gulp of breath, tries to look away. She flings herself at him, her feverish body coming in contact with his, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He means to protest but she's kissing him ardently, tongue pushing against him aggressively. He curls his fists, keeps his arms limp at his side, but Hermione clings to him, pushes herself to him until he stumbles back a few steps, trips on something and then falls on his bottom, with her on top of him.

He feels the heat radiating from her, struggles to maintain his composure as her wet mouth attacks his chest with fast kisses. Her hands rake his body, her fingers twist his nipples and her teeth graze his skin. She's drunk with adrenaline and instincts and he needs to stop her.

"Granger, pull yourself together," he manages.

Her hand grabs him through his trousers and he groans.

"Granger, I…" his voice cracks as she moves up and down, just as he taught her: he doesn't even notice when she removes his belt, when she pulls down his zipper. He shudders when her hand envelops him, moving vigorously up and down his girth. His heart skips a beat.

With a force he didn't know he is capable of, he removes her hand from him and comes face to face with a fully naked woman, breathing heavily before him. He doesn't know when she has removed her undies but her amber eyes are sparkling with ferocity, her cheeks are flushed and her lips are wet and red as they rub against each other hungrily. Her breasts dangle in front him as she shifts nervously, making him want to put them in his mouth and taste them for the whole night.

She takes advantage of his distracted self, pulls his trousers and boxers off him and then she climbs on top of him, positioning him at her entrance. The sudden movement feels like a slap in the face: his eyes widen in alarms, his arms grip her wrists.

Hermione bites one of the hands that hold her and when Draco retreats and yelps in pain she takes the plunge, propelling herself forward.

The searing pain ripples across her body and she screams as stinging tears well up in her eyes. Still, she moves up and down on him, pinches his chest painfully.

"I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die," she repeats like a broken record, feeling a hot liquid flowing between them.

Draco notices the trickle of blood that comes out from the place where their bodies are joint, stares at it horrified as she rides him desperately, fighting trough her own pain and chanting the same maddened mantra. He lurches forward, grips her hips to stop her, but it only makes her slam into him more forcefully. He screams out, and then is engulfed by guilt because, to him, the pleasure is still real: primal and unlike anything he has ever experienced before.

Her body produces tears and blood as she rides him relentlessly. Draco tries to fight his own pleasure, as his teeth sink into his bottom lip and his eyes close attempting to block the image of her bouncing breasts and sweaty skin. It's all unbearable, gruesomely wrong, and he clenches his jaw as his eyes roll to the back of his head. He keeps telling himself that he's hurting her and it disgusts him to no end, but as her fingers pinch him painfully and the walls of her vagina envelop him, the tightness causes such a distinct brand of pleasure that he feels high on it. He looks at their conjoined bodies and tries to fight the urge to roll his hips into her as she pounds on him. He's helpless, unable to exert any resolve.

"Granger," he shouts at her through waves of pleasure. "Granger, you're hurting yourself!" She pounds vigorously, faster. "Granger!" he screams and moans at the same time, his ragged breath a wretched sound. "Granger, I beg of you, stop! Granger, I can't!"

"I don't want to die," she says, gritting her teeth like an animal. "I told you I don't want to die!" she shouts back. "I want you to come inside me, I want to feel something before they kill me! The will kill me!" she screams and slams harder.

Draco falls back to the floor, squeezes his eyes shut, curses himself. He hates every bit of the treacherous body he inhabits. The body that now trembles beneath her, shaken by an unbelievable ecstasy that disconnects him from all else. There is no end and no beginning to the world anymore, there is only the flesh where their bodies meet to become one, the building pressure that threatens to disintegrate him as it raises to alarming levels. He hears the slapping of skin on skin, feels the drops of sweat that fall on him from her body, hears her gasping for air and repeating her mantra.

If he lets go, he thinks, the horrified scenario will end much sooner.

So, with his eyes still shut, he lets his head back and grips her hips, surrendering. The smell, feel and movement of her body makes his lust filled veins explode and throw him into a territory of terrible, unimaginable pleasure. It burns him completely, breaks him apart and he screams out with an animal like fury. He's undone.

She stills as his semen spills inside of her, accompanied by grunts and moans. Through labored breaths, he opens his eyes, feeling the guilt clawing at him like flesh eating bacteria. He sees her regaining her wits and becoming aware of her surroundings, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She's trembling, shivering on top of him, so distinctly vulnerable that he fears moving because it might hurt her.

"Hermione," he pleads desperately, hating himself more than he ever hated anything in his life. She looks crestfallen, as if only now she recognizes him. Between them there's a pull of blood staining her thighs and his pelvis and she brings her palms up to stifle her gasp, but they're also covered in blood. Frenzied, Hermione tries to wipe off the blood from her mouth with the back of her: instead, it smears it all over her face.

She stands up, scrambling to her feet on shaky legs, eager to put distance between them. Then her body doubles over under the weight of heart wrenching sobs until she slides back to the floor, crying. Draco rushes to her, wraps his arms around her and murmurs again and again.

"It's going to be alright, I promise. It's going to be alright, I promise," he chants.

She cries harder, breaking apart in his arms. She scratches the skin of his chest, punches him and shouts out, for what seems hours at an end. He never lets his arms drop for a second.

 **A/N: I know, I know. Messed up, huh? But there is a reason why this story is rated Drama. Having said that, I'm still holding my breath, waiting to read your feedback. I will understand if you're angry or upset with me, but I was never going to make this fanfic follow a classical "it's mostly sunshine and butterflies for our heroes" route. Not that there is something wrong with those stories, it's just not the way I write.**


	11. Tenderness

**A/N: I wrote this whole chapter listening to a magnificently soothing song by Daniela Andrade called Shore. If you intend to listen to it on Youtube, the magic starts at 1:15**. ;)

Hermione watches in stupor the blank wall ahead of her. People shuffle in and out in the room, metal containers hit the table and people in starch white uniforms move restlessly among the beds. The air smells like pain killers and Pepperup potion.

"Miss Granger," a gentle voice calls her attention. "You are in St. Mungo. My name is Ophelia Brooks and I am your Healer today. Can you tell me if anything feels wrong at all?"

Hermione's eyes flick upwards and she stares at the young woman with a vacant expression. The Healer takes out her wand, murmurs something in a soothing voice, but the words escape her. They are fluid sounds hitting her eardrums in a broken, incomprehensible rhythm. A small, warm hand touches her shoulder and Hermione starts.

"Miss Granger?" the young woman asks again. "How do you feel?"

Feel. It's a terrible word with the power to cut through the frail numbness and her face scrunches up, her arms wrap around herself. It's very cold, she suddenly realizes. That's all she feels, all the feeling she allows to infiltrate behind the skin. The woman's worried eyes flit across her face, analyze her. Hermione catches dozens of voices around her, from the shrill voice of an old woman, to the piercing cry of a baby. They mingle together in a buzz that speeds up her heartbeats. She feels her throat dry.

"Water," Hermione breathes out.

The Healer nods and offers her a glass of cool water that she drinks greedily.

"Miss Granger," the Healer asks again, her voice calming like a lazy river. "You're in St. Mungo. You've been brought here after a terrible fight with Death Eaters. By the time you arrived here, you have been administered various healing potions and balms. Your injuries have been almost completely healed, save for the wound in your knee that should take a couple of days to mend completely. You suffered a severe blow to the head with an unidentified object and have been… subjected to the Cruciatus Curse."

Hermione winces, brings her knees to her chest and hides her head behind her arms.

"You're safe now, Miss Granger," the Healer assures, placing a timid hand on her shoulder. "In order to identify if you have been properly treated, I will need you to stand up. Can you do that for me?"

Hermione lets woman's arms support her as she is brought in a sitting position. However, as soon her feet touch the floor, she winces and crumbles. The Healer is quick, her arms are strong as they steady her and lay her back on the bed. Hermione rolls to the side, brings her feet to her chest and cries silently. A trickle of blood stains the perfectly white robe she has been given and the healer places her hand on Hermione's forehead. It feels soothing and she leans into it, willing herself to forget.

"Miss Granger," the Healer whispers now. "As your healer, I need to pull up your hospital robe to check for injuries. I need to stop the bleeding and make sure whatever wound I find there will not get infected. Can you let me do that?"

Hermione nods and lays on her back, unmoving. She's no more than a rag doll in the gentle arms of the Healer. There are just two of them between the drawn curtains that surround her bed and she feels a cool breeze on her core as the other woman murmurs a couple of charms and the tip of her wand moves around her sex. When she is finished the blistering pain ceases, the torn skin does not throb anymore.

"I'm afraid, Miss Granger, that I have to ask you a very uncomfortable question. I can assure that I've hexed these curtains soundproof and that whatever you tell me will remain strictly confidential." The woman pauses and then musters a neutral tone. "A wizard by the name of Draco Lucius Malfoy has brought you here an hour ago. As the wounds that I've just healed are common in witches that experienced sexual injuries I must ask… Miss Granger, were you sexually assaulted? Do you want me to report someone or call for help?"

Hermione denies it wordlessly, shaking her head as fresh tears well up in her eyes.

"Would you like me to leave you alone?" the Healer asks, leaving another vial of calming potion on a small table. When Hermione nods she adds "If there's anything that you need, anything at all, I've left your wand on a holster underneath your bed, as per the current procedure. Just wave it and say my last name and I'll be with you."

With these last words she pulls the curtain aside and steps out. Out of the corner of her eyes, Hermione sees Ginevra, upright on a bed, glancing anxiously around her. When her eyes land on Hermione she wants to speak, but her words are cut out by strong arms around her as a man that can be anywhere between 35 and 50 years old holds onto her to dear life.

"What did they do to you?" he demands, turning around to billow at the Healers who try to push him out of the ward. "She's my daughter! I am allowed to see my daughter whenever I please! You, idiots don't know how to take proper care of her anyway."

"Father," Ginevra says in a measured tone. "I'm alright. Nothing happened."

"Nothing happened?" he seethes. "You almost got yourself killed. This is not what I had in mind for you when we moved here. The idiots," he spats again as his daughter gives him a meaningful look. "This is a disaster!"

The man attracts stares and not just because of his commanding demeanor. He has the face of a Roman God and the body of a gladiator. Even in his anger, or maybe because of it, he has this allure that draws people in, captures the interest of the others. He's dressed in the finest robes and only has eyes for his daughter, blue, large eyes that are the exact shape and color as Ginevra's. He is a brunette though, with jet black hair and he's tall and imposing with shifty eyes, straight jaw and a well-groomed beard. If his daughter is a quarter Veela, than the man must be half… the child of a Veela and her mate, the product of an unbearably strong connection.

Ginevra lays her head on his chest and it's the first time when Hermione sees any vulnerability on her face. The man's voice softens to such a degree that it's almost unrecognizable:

"Where did they hurt you? Has it healed? Should I Floo in another Healer from the States?"

She shakes her head and closes her eyes and right then Padma appears in the doorway of the big ward they're held in. She wears patient robes too, sports a fresh scar on her forearm and smiles weakly at Hermione.

Padma steps closer, asks permission to sit on the bed. Hermione makes room for her without saying a word.

"We've survived this one too, eh? All of us, thank Merlin," Padma says meekly. Then she pauses, casts a furtive glance around them and says in a much quieter tone. "I saw Draco Malfoy bringing you in, you were pale as a ghost, Hermione. Is there… anything I can do to help?"

Hermione sighs heavily, looks up to the worried eyes of Padma without speaking. The black haired witch takes Hermione's hand in hers, squeezes reassuringly. "You can tell me, Hermione. I won't tell a single soul, I swear on my father's grave."

The words hurt the back of her throat, they buckle against her teeth before they unwillingly spill from her lips.

"I think I raped Draco Malfoy," Hermione rasps out, no louder than a faint whisper.

Padma's eyes search hers, meet hallowed irises, red whites. The dark haired girl seems to have stopped breathing for a second and then she pulls Hermione towards her chest, hugs her with no restraint. Padma's black eyes are silent, but she rocks Hermione gently, as one does to a child, for minutes at an end.

"No one gets unscathed out of a war," Padma says much later, her hands still around Hermione.

She goes away only because another Healer comes to chase her out. Ginevra and her father have gone too and before she has time to fear loneliness, Ron appears in the doorframe, covered in dirt, as if he's fresh from fighting, contrasting drastically with the cleanliness that bounces from wall to wall. The moments his eyes lay on her he sprints, hurrying to hug her fiercely. What little courage Hermione has, it crumbles in his embrace and she grips him fiercely, content beyond measure to be tucked safely at the familiar chest. He smells of debris and chocolate and she wants to inhale him.

"I thought I lost you," he says as he only pauses to examine her. "I went to see Ginny and I… Merlin, Hermione, she looked dead…"

He tells her everything. He cries without even realizing it as he recounts the fight that took place in her absence. It was a fierce battle and Ginny has been tortured by means of Cruciatus before being shackled in a dungeon. There were dozens of Death Eaters and they all aimed to kill. A whole neighborhood was burned to the ground. Auror Bailey, the youngest of them, is dead. And he has feared for her life every single moment. After it was over, they all looked for her, Keens and Malfoy everywhere, before someone announced him they were all in St. Mungo. He had been so afraid…

They lay pressed together on the bed, but the more his hand remains intertwined with hers, the more Hermione feels him fading away from her mind. It's as if, if she would close her eyes, he would disappear completely. Instead, Draco's figure takes shape beneath her eyelids.

In the end, he leaves too, chased away by an old Healer with a short patience. Hermione spends the night looking at the ceiling, reliving what happened. She thinks she can feel his burning skin, thinks she can hear him saying "No" to her. She remembers his horrified expression, his bruising grip on her hips, the tormented pleasure that colored his face and shook his body. His silver eyes, their pleading gaze are ingrained in her memory, appear before her eyelids every time she closes them.

Why didn't he bring her to St. Mungo's directly? Why hasn't he used his wand to stop her, to break through her panic attack? And most important, how could one person feel pleasure and pain in the same time, the way he had clearly felt?

Hermione feels dirty, tainted by something she knows she won't be able to scrub out of her skin. Was sex in general, or sex with Draco Malfoy, always like this? A battlefield in itself, where pain drips from her body like her blood and sweat have dripped on his? Because, to her, it felt like a primal ritual, an incarceration in the confines of her own mind and body, unlocked by an even more dangerous, feral need for release. Or did it happen this way because she forced him to comply with her madness, because she has subdued him?

At the break of dawn, there is noise in her ward again. A woman moans painfully as Healers seem to rush around, their uniforms rustling around her curtains. Hermione's heart skips a beat. Has there been another attack, are there more victims?

"Breathe for me, Mrs. Conrad, inhale and exhale and we'll see that this baby arrives safely into the world."

 _Baby?_

Hermione sits up on her bed and waits behind the curtains that provide her privacy. She closes her eyes and listens to every little sound: the noise of the Healers' shoes as they rush across the floor, the cries of the mother, subdued by the pain, the chanting of the incantations that are being murmured. What happens outside her curtains it's a battlefield too, but one's whose outcome she waits with hope. The cries of pain go on for an almost an hour, until, along with the sunrise, the cry of the newborn fills the ward and she can hear laughter and joy in the Healers' voices. Hermione cries when the baby cries again, right beneath the slanted rays of sunshine that color the ceiling of the ward.

A new emotion blooms in her chest and the more the baby cries, the more she feels the powerful spark strengthening in her veins, pushing away the fear, the doubt and the sorrows.

 _I'm alive_.

Whatever might have happened she has been given this new day, she has witnessed in silence the birth of a new life. She, herself, feels reborn, emboldened by the morning. She reaches her wrist and shivers when she feels her own pulse. It's a constant reminder that she's alive, alive, alive. Someone has opened a window and she breathes in with an insatiable thirst. The scents from the garden outside mix with the smell of medicine and perfectly clean robes, disrupt the round the clock order of the hospital. She hears birds singing and they lull both her and the baby to sleep.

In the end she only hears the new mother, now alone with the infant, sobbing quietly, chanting love words to her beloved baby boy. In a moment or two she will be moved elsewhere, so the baby can meet his father and the rest of the family, but for now it's just the three of them, the birds and the morning air.

Life wins.

He opens up his door the moment she knocks. He has this agitated look upon his face and dark circles under the eyes: he looks like he hasn't slept in a long time.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

They say it in the same time so the only thing that's left is to stare at each other, as if their gazes would try to crawl beneath the other's skin, hoping to understand what lies hidden there. They barely dare to move, aware that they'd only be walking on eggshells.

"Can I come in?" she finally asks, softly, and he moves aside without a word.

His apartment looks different in the morning, flooded by warm light, welcoming and serene. She sits unmoving, until she can hear him shuffling behind her, finally coming to face her.

"Are you alright?" he says with difficulty and she nods. He paces the room.

"Listen, Granger," he starts gravely. "You must believe me when I say I did not intend for things to go so wrong. I brought you to that Muggle house because I knew St. Mungo was going to be overcrowded after the battle. I knew I could heal you myself, but I had never anticipated… an emotional response. I saw you on a battlefield before and you always looked like you could outlive every other person around. How am I to understand what happened? Fuck, Granger, I never wanted to hurt you."

She doesn't say a thing for a long time, rummaging through the echoes of his words. His voice has sounded harassed, heavy.

"Draco…" she murmurs, bracing herself for the worst: "Did I… did I rape you?"

He stops abruptly, stares at her.

"I was about to ask _you_ the same question," he mutters, his chest moving fast as if trying to shake a huge weight off it "you were not in your right mind, but I was. I should have… I should have stopped it."

"Why didn't you?" she asks, but it's not accusation.

He groans. "I couldn't, alright? I just couldn't, Granger. I'm fucked up like that."

She doesn't move from her spot. "Is it always like that? Sex. It is always so painful, so… animal like and dangerous?"

He shakes his head, takes one of her hands in his.

"No. Granger, fuck, no! There are a million ways to do it, but what happened yesterday was something you should have never experienced. It is not supposed to be like this. Especially the first time."

"But you enjoyed it," she points out in what she hopes it's a neutral tone. "I still see you, so lost in that rapture, unable to fight it. Do you enjoy some pain? Or is it just the other's person pain that does it for you?"

His fingers dig into his scalp, he pulls at the roots of his hair.

"I don't know, Granger. I've never felt it before. I had no idea… None of it was normal." Then, a little bit more calm. "I never meant to hurt you."

She fixates her big, brown eyes on his. He's so wound up in sorrow he looks about to crack.

"I don't have any answers for you," he says, defeated.

She nods, sits down on his sofa, caressing its edges absent-mindedly. There are different ways to approach this. The first one would be anger. To be angry for him letting it go so far, to enjoy it to that degree, despite her obvious pain and emotional distress. Hell, maybe he had even given her something, a potion or another, to heighten her anxiety or to increase her sexual desire, maybe that's what caused her breakdown. But hasn't she been drawn to him before? It is easy to let anger win because she feels she has been robbed of something in that extremely vulnerable moment. There is something bubbling up just beneath the surface, a mix of words like "abuse" and "assault" and maybe even "violation".

The second option would be self-incrimination. She has been the one that lost control on her emotions and jumped on him like he was no more than a means to an end. He has told her "NO", he has vociferated loud and clear that he was against her attempts to disrobe him and have intercourse. She has attacked him physically, biting his hand to distract him and take him like a cavewoman. Did she like it? She chews her lip and tries to sort through her memories, in order to distinguish pleasure from pain. There was this distinct moment when she had felt, despite the hurt and the blood, that they fit just right, that his body was not an unknown territory, but something she recognized. She has had this innate knowledge of how to move in order to make him lose control. It must have been that primal instinct that guides all people through their first sexual experience.

The third option is acceptance. She can chose to blame this on the extremely stressful moment, life-or-death moments usually make people behave in an irrational manner. Perhaps they are both just as guilty for the traumatic experience they were part of. She could have tried to keep it together, he could have tried better to stop her. She can chose to let this moment define it or she can… rectify it. To associate sex with pain, with something dirty is an option. She knows many people who engage in safe, sexual intercourse and they seem quite happy together. So does she want to be the one to judge it through the outcome of a single experience?

She looks at him looking at her in apprehension. Her gaze travels from his rumpled hair to the dark circles beneath the grey eyes to the chewed, dry bottom lip. He wears pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt and his eyes never leave her face.

Hermione stands up and he mirrors her gesture. He has this mien of a haunted animal, like he expects her to strike any second now. She breathes in, closes her eyes. When she opens them there's a look in them that he cannot recognize. She has decided to be brave.

Draco's mouth hangs open when she makes her way into his bedroom, leaving the door ajar. There is this moment, when all can spiral out of control, when tension swelters in the space between them like a festering wound. And then she hears him moving, unsure steps that follow her into the room. He is standing in the doorframe and she's on his bed, laying on her back and staring at the ceiling. With shaky hands, she motions for him to join her.

Draco hesitates for a bit and then he lays on his side, resting on his elbow and looking at her. She meets his gaze and chews on her bottom lip. His free hand strokes her cheekbone, pushing aside a strand of her hair. She squirms under the touch at first, but then leans in, welcoming the warm touch on her face.

"You can leave now if you want," his voice pierces the complete stillness of the room. There is a thick air of indecision licking at both their skins.

"Do you want me to leave?" she whispers, fixating large brown eyes on his.

He shakes his head, but then retreats his hand.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I know," she says and he sighs heavily.

"I've hurt you anyway," he says, a mournful look on your face.

"Then show me it can be different," she challenges and it changes everything. She sees his hands flexing, notices the silver eyes darkening. His whole body locks so, tenderly, she brings one hand to his heart, waits to feel the agitated heartbeat underneath.

He wants to refuse her touch, but her hand rests on his chest now, fingers trailing irregular paths on the fabric of his T-shirt. He glues his gaze to her face. She brings his dormant palm to her face again, leans into it, shifts on the soft mattress. Then, before he knows what has happened, she brings her lips to his, pressing softly. Her tongue darts out to lick his lower lip and he sighs before bending his head to capture her mouth. His mouth is tender, stilling and then speeding up their kiss and Hermione discovers she likes the irregular rhythm but wishes he would not hold back anymore. Because it still makes her feel like she's taking advantage.

When his lips move to her neck, his free hand, the one that's not supporting his head, moves to her mid-riff. It barely strokes her but it's enough to send tingles down her spine, to make her breathing a little more erratic. He halts.

"Is it okay if I touch you here?" he murmurs in her ear when he cups her breast, hot breath tingling her earlobe and then she shivers: it's an awakening of sensations she welcomes.

He's patient, conquers one inch of compliant skin at a time and then looks up questioningly. She skims her fingers over his neck and then pulls his T-shirt over his head, glad to be reacquainted with the naked skin underneath. She pushes him back now, rolls on top of him. They both freeze for a moment, as they are reminded of the day before and its implications, but then his hand moves to her breast again, gives it a tentative squeeze.

"I have wanted you for such a long time," he rasps and when she searches his eyes she finds them determined, dead set on his affirmation. There is nothing lackluster about the way his hands move now, thumbs swiping over her covered nipples, moving with barely restrained haste. She places herself on top of his already hard member and they moan in unison.

She moves. _I have wanted you for such a long time_ echoes through her brain, brings a sense of power and she draws up the courage to bring her blouse over her head. The image of her upper body, clad in only a blue bra leaves him a little breathless. The daylight allows their eyes to feast on the other person's body and they do so greedily, until they tense with the anticipation of greater things to come.

He stands up and his ardent fingers unclasp the bra. He is now eye level with her breasts and takes one of them into his hot mouth, sucking it until she feels that familiar fever taking hold of her.

They don't rush when they undress each other. By the time they're both naked and she's standing beneath him, Hermione has forgotten about the day before and does not think about the next. All she thinks about is what she feels, his warm, delightfully heavy body on top of hers. Maintaining eye contact, he brings one of his hands between them, moves along her folds tenderly.

"Tell me if it hurts and I'll stop," he whispers, ever so attentive, as his middle finger rubs at her entrance.

She shivers at the contact, moaning and arching on the bed as his finger slides into her wet core. She watches him clench his jaw, expectantly. But this is not pain, this is pleasure at its best.

"Move it again," she asks, breathlessly and he complies.

She rides her high with complete abandonment. Before long, he has inserted a second finger and her body latches on to him until she coats his hand in a proof of her excitation.

He is sweating now, trying hard to maintain his focus, to not do something wrong. His hair is damp and it sticks to his forehead, his neck is stiff, despite her caresses: he fights his pleasure. So she's the one that sneaks up between them and her fingers wrap around him, making him close his eyes and bow his head as his fingers lose rhythm inside her. She braces herself, places him at her entrance.

There is this look that goes between them: he's more scared than she is now, and they're bound by their desire mixed with the same need for that particular connection that still feels like uncharted territory.

This is it. She feels his tip at his entrance, warm, eager flesh asking permission to join their bodies. She pushes herself into him and Draco hisses at the contact. His eyes, heavy with lust, are boring into hers with an intensity she has never experienced before and that dizzies her a little: he pushes forward, stretching the walls of her vagina until her head falls back on the mattress. The muscle of her vagina stretch around him and he sinks into her all the way.

She had prepared herself for that pain again, tightening her muscles to face it, but it just feels like being invaded by goosebumps and joy. He might have penetrated her core only, but she feels him in every inch of her body, a body that seems to welcome him despite everything, yearning to preserve this moment forever.

Then he moves and she releases a moan that feels like breaking a lock.

She thinks of all the other people having sex right now, skins on skin and moaning bodies becoming one with their passion, one with their partner. She thinks of how Harry and Ginny must have sex, all wrapped up in their love, in that need for each other that she was first to notice in both of them and that will probably follow them for the rest of their lives. She wonders if they call it making love or if that's just instinct taking over too.

She thinks of Ron and Padma and now, that it doesn't hurt anymore, she's bewildered at the ecstasy they displayed before her and understands why she hasn't interrupted them earlier that night. Maybe, just maybe, Draco likes a little pain but she has this knack for observing other people going at it like their life depended on that act. She remembers just how wild and free Padma had looked, how beautiful she was in the throes of her orgasm. She recalls Ron's face, focused and sincere, as he sped towards his release, as those strong arms held the woman before him like she was a tasty fruit that he could not get enough of her.

She wonders how the delicate Luna looks in bed with her own fiancée, if she's the same candid girl or if her instincts transform her too in an object of a desire, if her body turns into a nest of pleasure.

She wonders how many people are doing it in the exact same moment, how many of them achieve an orgasm. She sees faceless men and women wrapped in each other's limbs, tasting each other's sweat and lips, their bodies pushing frantically into beds and kitchen tables, begging for release. She does not feel shame for imagining other naked beings, nor guilt, she only thinks they're all part of a wonderful ritual, atoms of one compact body of bliss.

"Go faster," she rasps.

Draco thrusts into her harder and she forgets her own name, being reduced to nothing more than a powerful energy that seeps through her skin to connect with his. He fights to maintain control, but she doesn't want him to censor himself in any way. Instead, her trembling hands grab his shoulders and her hips arch to welcome him, taking him to the hilt. She loses herself in him, calling his name, again and again until, finally, the explosion occurs and she's removed from reality. She floats now, carried by an outstanding emotion that overrules her other senses and she realizes she must have crawled beneath his skin to inhabit the body there, to make it her own.

Distantly, she hears him grunt and moan and then she feels him spilling inside her, sealing their union before he collapses on top of her, his neck on her shoulders. She comes back to the world when she hears him breathing harshly against her neck, his body shivering on top of her. She shivers too, grips him with trembling hands so she doesn't have to disentangle herself from him.

This is a perfection she can endure.

None of them moves. His eyes bore into hers once more while she smiles lazily, tired limbs accepting his weight with joy. And when her breathing calms, she finally feels sleep claiming her. His breath slows too, his eyelids are heavy now, his arms reamain around her, his heartbeat is steady, a divine flutter on her breast.

She's alive.

 **A/N: I loved writing this one. I hope we can make up after the last chapter? :) I'd love to hear your opinions on this, your constructive criticism is what makes a better author. Especially since there are only 3 or 4 more chapters left.**

 **Secondly… IMPORTANT NEWS! I am terribly excited to announce that I wrote a new story! It's very, very different from this one and it focuses on Rose Weasley. I've titled it** ** _Not All the Good Guys Win_** **and it has mystery, adventure and the very essential lemons!** **;)** **I thought it was fun to portray Rose as anti-hero and quite a nasty one at that. I would really appreciate if you have a look and tell me what you think about it. Just access my author page to find it. :)**

 **So… what did you think of this chapter?**


	12. Fantasies

**A/N: WARNING: this chapter contains mild female slash.**

 **Also, a clarification: in my head dark/black haired and brunette were one and the same and a kind reviewer has brought to my attention that I must have confused some of you. So, Ginevra's father has jet black hair, Padma has black hair while Hermione is a brunette.** **J I apologize for the confusion.**

 **Also, you are the most awesome readers and reviewers in the world! Cheers to you!**

She is woken up by his fingers tracing patterns between her shoulder blades. She squints her eyes, sees the afternoon sun peaking in through the curtains: Saturdays are her favorite days indeed. She closes her eyes again, smiles contently.

"What are you drawing?" she asks in a sleepy voice, making his fingers come to a halt.

"Penises," he replies and she snorts, turning around to face him.

Draco's hair is still tousled from sleep and his lips curl up into a childish smirk. She rolls her eyes at him and the silence is perturbed by the gurgles in her stomach, a cringe worthy sound that has him roaring with laughter.

"Come on, Granger. I think it's only fair I should feed you," he says, snatching the sheets from her grasp and making her squeal when she finds herself sprawled naked before him. "Unless, of course, you want to ravish me some more at first."

Her stomach protests loudly and he laughs again.

"Food it is, then."

"You cook?" she asks, crooking an eyebrow.

He shudders at the thought. "Merlin, no! I might have spent some time among Muggles," he says, hoping off the bed, "but I don't see why I would subject my precious time to something as mundane as cooking."

"You spent some time among Muggles?" she quips, her eyes widening.

"Always the judgmental tone, Granger!" he teases.

"Cooking is a useful skill," she says hurriedly, stealing the sheet back from him, to wrap it around herself. "It's always useful to know how to provide for yourself, especially when it comes to something as essential as food. I mean, what if you get stranded on a deserted island?"

He frowns, turns to her stark naked as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Why would I ever get stranded on an island? You're weird, Granger."

"Says the guy who flashes his wiener before me," she mumbles, looking away.

"Why, I don't remember you minding it just a couple of hours ago. Actually, you were rather enchanted by the sight of this splendid exemplary of male genitalia…" he trails off when she huffs offended. Then he calls out loud: "Dinnie!"

The House –Elf appears right in the middle of the room, making Hermione start and wrap the sheet tighter around herself. Draco makes a spectacle of himself, sets his arms on his hips and says commandingly:

"Dinnie, would you please get myself and the lady here some good brunch? Large amounts of coffee would also be appreciated. "

The House –Elf nods and disappears as fast as she came.

"Draco," Hermione chastises in a hushed whisper. "Why would you stand naked before somebody else?"

"Before Dinnie, you mean? Dinnie has seen my – what was it? Ah, yes, wiener – before. Since birth, if you take into account that she's the House-Elf assigned to me…"

"You're a pervert," she interrupts throwing a pillow at him. "All the more reasons to free the House Elves," she adds morosely.

"Yeah," he muses, "save them from inspecting too close the penis of Draco Lucius Malfoy! Good luck with the boycott next month, by the way" he replies, offering her the purest Malfoy smirk that he's capable of.

They eat in relative silence after Dinnie returns, save for a few teasing words and his attempts to snatch the sheet from her. She is surprised by this playful part of him, the easiness with which he moves around, as she's so accustomed to see him tense, ready to retaliate. Of course, she does notice the way he inconspicuously tries to scan her face and her body, looking for any sign she might be in discomfort, but he's otherwise in a very good mood. Perhaps good enough to enable her to get some most coveted answers:

"Why did you become a Healer?" she asks, looking at her plate to pretend she's not that interested to begin with.

"Why, Granger, you spend a few delectable hours in my bed and think you can rummage through my dirty laundry already?"

She wants to look offended, but he arches an eyebrow at her.

"I'll tell you anyway," he says. "You see, in fact I'm just a misunderstood sentimental bloke and all I've ever wanted was to heal the world, cure cancer and end world hunger."

She snorts, throws him a dirty look and takes another sip of her coffee. She remains tongue in cheek for a minute, knowing he watches her carefully, despite the careful mocking attitude that he displays.

"So… how is the Healing Training program in the States different from the one here?" she tries again. Then, at his narrowed eyes. "I heard they have an accelerated learning module and that you are supposed to learn in a year things that would take the Healers here three."

"You just _heard_ it or did you spend a day in the library researching thoroughly?"

She blushes and looks again, tapping her fingers on his kitchen table. Damn it, she's that obvious? Deciding it does not matter anymore she decides to give her inner nerd a field day and she rambles on:

"I heard that they combine Magical and Muggle methods of treatment and that the training program is quite tough. I heard you are in charge of both preparing potions and ointments as well as supervising patients and performing incantations." Her eyes lit up. "There's even a module on the relationship with the patients, which teaches you bedside manners. Oh and there are 36 hours shifts –"

"48 hours shifts," he corrects, taking a bite of his toast.

She smiles to herself, grins really.

"Why did you decide to become a Healer?"

"I took a training course, I didn't decide to become anything," he says, his guarded demeanor returning. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here, acting like the little lap dog in your office."

She throws a piece of grape at his pointy face.

"You are not my lap dog. I am a more than reasonable, respectable manager and I consider you're learned useful things since dealing with…"

"It's that what you tell yourself to sleep well at night? Are these the delusional stories that go through your mind in order to justify your bossy, uncontrollable outbursts? Not to mention, the horrifying table manners…"

"I am a good boss!" she says lamely.

He looks like he has expected this line. "Oh, I don't know: I have a feeling that most of the good bosses out there don't get eaten by their employees in their quarters. Or is a common custom to have your intern's tongue lick at your most private parts?" he teases, sucking his index finger. "But then again, you were always keen on _extracurricular work_ ," he asks, mouthing the last two words seductivel.

She stops and purses her lips, ready to retaliate: "Well, _you_ were known to take advantage of your relationship with your teachers in order to get ahead," she says, smirking.

He stops, quite shocked, but obviously pleased.

"Granger, are you implying that I'm sleeping with you in order to advance my career?"

She doesn't answer at first, but takes a bite of the delicious toast that Dinnie prepared, trying not to think about the fact that's she's eating something unpaid House Elves cooked.

"Well, it would certainly explain your sudden interest in me," she says, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "Or the constant desire to get me in your bed, seemingly at any cost."

"Or maybe I have wanted you before that and I just saw an opportunity."

She doesn't know what to make of his serious tone or why the air is thick with something she can't name. She sits there, open mouthed, studying his mercurial gaze, but he doesn't back up, nor does he try to twist his words into a joke. There's only that intense look he gives her and he's unmoving, like he holds his breath for something.

She pushes the hair out of her face and she accidentally knocks the coffee pot off the table and into the floor, where it shatters and stains her legs. Startled, she jumps from her chair, drops the sheet and rubs her calves to ease the slight burn of the hot coffee.

She feels his warm hands wrapping around her from behind and his nose nuzzles her neck. They're both still naked.

"Leave it," he whispers into her hair, longing evident in his voice. It makes her weak at the knees.

"What a mess," she whispers for the lack of something better.

His hands roam her body patiently, he breathes her in. It starts already, that desire for him that becomes habitual now and when she shifts a little she feels his hardness pressed against her bottom. She turns around, grabs his hand and a thought suddenly breaches through the haze:

"Where's your Dark Mark?" she asks out of a blue, berating herself mentally for not noticing until now. He freezes, as if not understanding where this has come from. She doesn't understand either. "Did it just disappear in time?" she asks again.

He reaches a cupboard, takes out what seem to be make-up removal wipes. He pulls one out, drags it along the skin of his forearm, rubbing dutifully. The ugly shape of the tattoo-like mark reveals itself to her. It's fading, but still there, still not completely removed from his body. Perhaps it's meant to stay with him until he dies.

"Was that…"

"Muggle foundation? Yeah. One designed especially to cover tattoos, birth marks and the like… it has served its purpose well."

Her fingers trace the outline of the ugly mark, the only flaw, besides a few scars, on his unblemished skin. He shifts uncomfortably and she avoids his gaze.

Then a thought rushes to her mind, making her gasp:

"Draco!" she exclaims. "You felt it… all the times the Dark Mark has been cast ever since the beginning of all this. You must have felt its call since the beginning."

He narrows his eyes at her, pulls his arm from her hands.

"I did," it's the only answers she gets to her excited questions.

"But then, you would have had the ability to appear at the calling place…" she says, her voice trailing off as his cool, grey eyes settle on her. Something heavy, metallic settles in the pit of her stomach, while his gaze is cruel and daring.

"I should have had the ability, indeed," he sneers, stepping away from her. Hermione follows him into the bedroom, where he pulls out a pair of trousers and steps in them while she's left naked and keen on getting replies for a million questions.

"Why haven't you told anybody?"

"Who says I haven't?" he replies, and the irritation is so clear in his voice that she back up a step. "I've told Shacklebolt, go pester him instead."

She tries to keep it together. "Draco, why are you mad at me?" she asks softly, aware that this is a moment that can brake whatever they have.

"Because, Granger, even after I shagged the living daylights out of you, you're still ready to throw me under the bus based on the meek assumption that I had intel on Death Eaters activities, but chose to hide the information. Or isn't this what goes through your head at this exact moment?" When she doesn't answer, she sees him laugh cruelly. "Because the truth is that no matter what I'll do, I'll always be the Death Eater scum to you and everyone else, won't I?"

"I didn't say that," she fights back feeling all the positivity go up in flames. "You always understand the worst –"

"Yeah, well, we can't all be as smart as the Gryffindor Princess and her unattainable level of perfection-"

"Stop it!" she says, trying to catch his hands, but he moves out of her reach. There is a heavy weight in her stomach and a bitter taste on her tongue. "Draco, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this don't get so defensive."

He turns his back to her, stares at the window. There are a few minutes when none of them move and then this voice pierces the silence, ruins the peace they have enjoyed.

"I think you should leave."

She dresses herself quickly and leaves the apartment.

When Ginny is finally released from the hospital, a week later, the Weasleys welcome her with a celebratory dinner. There's the usual mayhem at the Burrow and the house is filled with laughter and the smell of good food. Ginny accepts everyone's hugs, answers each question she gets in a brief, polite manner. But when she thinks no one's looking she seems to drift away, removed from the noise and chatter around her. For the first time in a long while, Hermione sees her not returning Harry's kisses, avoiding his hugs.

Hermione tries to get Ginny alone for the whole evening. She finally catches up with her in her old bedroom, as she sits on the bed and sighs as if the end of the world is not so far in the future after all.

"Ginny," Hermione calls her name softly, standing in the doorway. The redhead's gaze lingers on her for a long time before she motions for Hermione to join her on the bed.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asks, remembering her own breakdown after the attack and its repercussions.

"I think I'll have to break the engagement."

"Why?" Hermione says a bit too loud. Then, measuring her tone. "What happened?"

"The Healers in St. Mungo told me there's a great possibility I might never have children… " Ginny says and then stares ahead of her, as if saying it out loud makes it real. "They say the torture has been too intense, that I'm lucky to even be alive…" Then, turning to Hermione "Harry dreams of a family, he wants to make up for his own rotten childhood. And I'm… I'm barren, Hermione," Ginny says in a desolate tone.

"No, you aren't," Hermione says, hugging her friend fiercely. "There are ways to fight it, you're young and I'll research to end of the world and back if I have to. But I won't stop until we'll heal you!" Hermione promises and Ginny smiles weakly.

"Not everything in the world can be solved by reading books, Hermione…"

"I disagree," Hermione rushes. "My mother was supposed to be barren," Hermione says, aware that she hasn't disclosed to anyone before. "And here I am. I'd say I didn't turn out that bad," she ends with a grin.

Ginny rests her head on Hermione's shoulder, accepts the gentle hand that squeezes hers.

They are indeed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione realizes, as she sees the couple walking towards the Auror department without a glance to their surroundings. Other people have recognized them too and they are starting to gather around them: it's the first time since Lucius' release that the couple is seen outside their home. They don matching black attires and try to walk proud, but Lucius looks much older than she remembers. Even Narcissa's beautiful face looks haunted somehow, her diamonds not as sparkling as they once were.

They hold on to each other as they make their way through the ground floor, their stiff walk and cool demeanor making a clear dissonant note with their surroundings.

Hermione knows why they're at the Ministry. Shacklebolt has finally decided to interrogate them, in hope they might reveal some more about Death Eater's usual modus operandi. Even if the Malfoys have opened their house to the Aurors after the final battle, offering precious clues about the hideouts of the other Death Others, some voices in the Ministry kept saying it was enough. That they got off too easy. Also, Hermione thought, putting Malfoys in their place always looked in the public eye.

"You murderers," a woman's voice pierces the Hall and Hermione recognizes Maye Wadley, the same witch who has spoken against Draco at that dreadful meeting, weeks and weeks before. Maye's wand points at the couple, her breath is shallow and her eyes blaze with rage. "You deserve to rot in Azkaban, not walk among decent people," she says and then she aims a Stupefy at them.

Hermione has already taken out her wand, but Draco is faster. The angry witch is disarmed and then he presses the tip of his wand to her neck, making the audience gasp.

"If you curse so much as one strand of hair of my parents' heads I'll make sure you regret the day you were born," he threatens in a low voice and Maye cries loudly, turning her head left and right.

"Did you see that?" she asks as dramatically as she can. "Did you see how this Death Eater threatens me? An unblemished, humble employee of the Ministry? Do you see how he turns against good people?" she shouts.

Narcissa's hand pats Draco's arm as she whispers something in his ear, in a manner to soft for anyone to catch what she's saying. Draco's face does not soften, but he removes his wand from the witch's neck.

The woman springs into action and raises her own wand once more but, before she can retaliate, she is Stunned into submission and all eyes turn towards Padma, glaring down from a balcony.

"Everyone back to your work," she bristles. "The Ministry is not paying you to gossip."

Hermione catches the look that goes on between Padma and Draco and she wonders why it bothers her so much.

Later, when she thinks the day's work is done and she is ready to leave the office, she feels his arms wrap around her just as she turns the doorknob.

"Stay," he whispers and it sounds like a plea. It's the first time he addresses her after that morning in his apartment and she shivers under his touch, only now aware of how much she has missed him.

She turns around and means to ask him all the questions that have waited on the tip of her tongue. But as she searches his eyes, she finds a vulnerable man, hiding behind the appearance of practiced carelessness. An old wizard has thrown tomatoes at his parents, on their way out. A young witch has tried to hex him during lunch. We all have our bad days, but she surmises his was spectacularly bad.

She leans in and kisses him. She tells herself she does it just because he needs it and she's a good woman. But in all honesty the moment their lips touch, the longing takes hold of her senses. She recognizes his scent, arches under his caresses, bites the plump lower lip with gusto.

They leave separately, always moving in secret, but the moment they're out the building Hermione Apparates them to her place for once. Her apartment is much smaller than his but a bed is a bed. They roll on her sheets until she feels the resentment and anger leaving him, until she is sore from all the activity.

He is no longer there when she wakes up the next morning.

"So, let me get this straight:" Padma is saying, weighting the two reports in her hands "a bunch of Death Eaters escape Azkaban, they somehow multiply in the span of weeks and manage to attack a Quidditch field in broad daylight, to kidnap Ginny Weasley. They use her to lure Harry – and practically all the ministry – into a trap. When we get there – surprise, surprise, bitches! – they have multiplied again, like ill-begotten rodents, and almost exterminated us. But we catch them, lock them away in Azkaban, only to miss freaking Rosier. And now we have no idea where the cash he used to finance his operations is coming from."

"Which begs the question," Hermione intervenes, her eyes never once leaving the book she's reading "are the new Death Eaters actually old ones that we never unveiled, or were they recruited recently?"

"My guess is they did it for the money," Draco says, flipping through the Daily Prophet, despite Hermione's warnings that they are in a Muggle place. "Most of them are young enough and, if our research is correct, none of them has been directly affected by the war: no dead relative, no money loss. So they have no idea what they got themselves into."

"They're so young," Hermione murmurs, a desolate look on her face. "And the years they're going to spend in Azkaban will influence them in a negative way for the rest of their lives. Oh, perhaps we can arrange some sort of reeducating facilities for the youngest of them, surely the Ministry wouldn't want to-"

"Stop trying to save everyone, Granger," Draco reprimands, earning himself a glare from Hermione, that he purposely ignores. Padma smiles amusedly, tongue in cheek.

They are sitting in the same Muggle café, just around the corner from the Ministry: it has become a habit of having dinner there. And since they have to work together anyway, the place fits in just right. Sometimes, Harry or even Shacklebolt joins them, but most evenings it's just the three of them and a multitude of drinks.

"How is it possible?" Padma groans, burying herself between the reports. "I mean, Rosier should have been an easy prey by now, but the damn Gringotts Goblins won't cooperate!" she adds, gesticulating too much. The rapid movements make her cocktail slosh to the side, making Draco wrinkle his nose in disgust. Padma notices his reaction and does it again. His eyes shoot up and she stick her tongue out, like a little girl.

"Real mature, Patil," he drawls, making Hermione raise her eyes from her book.

A man in his fifties walks by their table, glues his eyes to both Padma and Hermione. Draco glowers at him, his hands ball into fists. But the dark-haired witch turns and gives the man a dazzling smile that actually makes him trip. Draco look like he's about to throttle her. Up until the moment Hermione extends her legs from under the table and Draco's eyes shift towards them with an almost longing look. Padma breaks the silence by letting out a small laugh. He glares at her.

"Do you have to throw yourself at every dick that passes by, Patil? Are you that desperate?"

Padma smiles unabashedly, gives him a small wink.

"You're the one to talk about desperation?" she challenges, making just the smallest of gestures in the direction of Hermione and grinning at his sour expression, "Don't be prude, Malfoy! I've heard stories about you, from your _pilgrimage_ around the world that would make the skin of any decent witch crawl…"

Hermione's head whips towards him.

"What stories?"

"Ah, but you're no decent witch, Patil, you're a…"

"… cheating whore?" she answers for him with a shameless grin, reminding them of the scene in Hermione's office, when she came to apologize after the whole affair with Ron. "Oh, yeah, you've made that very clear… but then again, you're no saint either, are you?" she says and Hermione feels more uncomfortable by the minute. Padma cannot stop herself now, so she ups the ante: "But it all comes back to bite you in the ass, it seems." Then, with a quick look to Hermione:" I've heard that this one here fucked you so badly she thought she had raped you."

Draco's mouth tightness as if he had just swallowed a lemon and then he seethes. Hermione watches Padma with a shocked expression, but the dark-haired witch just sips on her cocktail until the silence is too much too bear. "Oh, come on, we're all adults here, aren't we?"

Unconsciously, Draco moves closer to Hermione, his arm sneaks around her waist. But his eyes are cold as they whisper menacingly to her:

"You've told Patil?"

"She needed to tell someone who wasn't going to judge her, like all the prudes out there. So shut it, Malfoy!" Padma replies, somewhat bored as Draco flexes his fingers, itching to hex her. Hermione clears her throat:

"We're here to work on the case," she tries earnestly.

"Yeah, I'm three cocktails past that," Padma answers dismissively. "I'm going home," she declares, then grabs her purse and stands up. But she miscalculates the effect her Cosmopolitans have on her and when she tries to give Hermione a peck on the cheek, she staggers: her mouth lands on the other witch's lips. Hermione tastes alcohol and fruity lip balm and something more that makes her sit frozen in place to try and identify it. But then Padma's lips move, stroking hers in a slow dance. Before she can comprehend what happens, Padma's hand shoots up, grabs the nape of her neck, tilting her head to the side: she then proceeds to explore every crevice of her mouth, in a slow, tantalizing rhythm.

It feels so good and different from all else that she does not even think to end it.

Hermione does not know if her dizziness is from the drink or from the expert way Padma's tongue coils around hers. Just before she loses her breath, the other witch steps back and brown eyes stare at black.

Padma breathes heavily, struggles to say something and then laughs, a laugh that is not entirely sincere.

"Shit!" she mumbles. "Fuck, I'm sorry, Hermione, I… Well, I better run home before I end up in a bigger mess than this," she says and then makes her way out.

Draco takes her on his desk, pounding into her and she does not even remember when they had Apparated to his apartment. Both their clothes are still on and, in their rush, he hasn't even removed her underwear. No, he has just moved her knickers to the side before thrusting into her like a starving man.

Well, new lesson: it seems that being witness to a kiss between two women has this effect on a man.

Hermione doesn't mind: she feels him buried deep inside her and it's exhilarating, the way he fills her just right, the way he brings her thigh around his hips to penetrate her even deeper.

She never thought herself to be a screamer, but she does not know how to stop the loud moans that escape her, how to muffle the delicious sounds of pleasure. His restless hands torn the buttons of her shirt and then he pushes her breasts up and outside the cups of her bra. The hot, delicious tongue circles her nipple, as his fingers rub her clit. She screams desperately when she comes apart, right before he spills himself inside her and comes harder than ever before.

Hermione shivers all over when he pulls out of her, a little wobbly. He leads her to his bed and it's only a matter of minutes before he is kissing her again, in that way of his that she has come to recognize as the mark of unrelenting desire.

She pulls his mouth to hers, kisses him while his fingers busy themselves with removing her clothes.

"It excited you, didn't it?" he whispers when he unclasps his bra.

"What exactly?" she murmurs and then moans when his fingers sneak beneath her skirt, entering her. Then, licking her lips. "What excited me?"

"Patil's tongue in your mouth," he whispers, hot and needy in her ear. She knows there's no use to blush because the moment he has said it, the words have sent a jolt of unbridled pleasure through her core. Still, she tries to bite her lips, delay her reply.

"Answer me," he demands, as two fingers pump her.

"Yes," she rasps out, arching her back and moving her core in rhythm with his fingers.

"Did you want to undress her?" he whispers again, huskily, struggling to maintain a clear head. "Did you imagine that perky tongue of yours trailing kisses all over her naked body?"

 _Fuck._

Hermione bucks her hips, wills him to move his fingers faster, as they brush a most sensitive spot over and over again. She's so feverish she thinks she's going to boil inside her body, and he's still fully dressed when he denies her, his fingers stilling inside her.

"Oh God, no, don't stop" she mumbles, willing him to move again. "Please," she rasps and doesn't care anymore, because the need is so tight in her bones, it threatens to rip her apart. She _needs_ to come.

"I'll go on if you tell me what's on your mind, Hermione," he whispers and she whimpers. "Tell me, what went on through your head when Patil grabbed you, mmmm? What did you want to do to her?"

His fingers move again, just slightly, and she moans, electrified. It's getting harder and harder to breathe.

"I wanted to…" another wanton moan "to… I wanted to… to fuck her," she says as his fingers curve inside her and she bucks her hips again. "Draco, please!" she begs, turning her sweaty face to feral looking one. There's something dancing in his eyes that makes her ache with desire.

"How?" he murmurs in her ear, as his fingers speed up. "How did you want to fuck her?" he asks and then licks her earlobe, making her go insane with desire.

"I don't know," she sobs now. "Oh, God, Draco, I don't know. I want to… " and then an image pops into her mind, surprises her with its clarity. "I wanted to push my fingers… inside her as you do now while I…"

"Yes?" he asks, while she loses her breath because his fingers have finally sped up.

"Oh, God, this is torture," she cries as her hands assault his shoulders, using them as support before she rides his hand desperately.

"Tell me and I'll let you come," he whispers again, before his teeth sink into her lower lip.

"I wanted to fuck her with my fingers as I rubbed my pussy on her leg," she cries out and then the vigorous fingers are going at the delicious speed she loves before they leave her completely. Before she has time to protest, a still suited Draco climbs atop of her, pulls down his zipper and frees his cock to plunge into her.

It only takes a couple of thrusts before they both come hard. Her legs are reduced to jelly, and his clothes chaff her skin. She thinks she'll never be able to breathe properly again.

Hermione welcomes the silence in the dark room, the wonderful afterglow. It takes him a while to speak again.

"It can be arranged, you know?" he says in a mischievous voice, as he nips her swollen clit.

"What can be arranged?" she murmurs, way to content to care about anything else.

"We can make your fantasy come true," he whispers in her ear, "you, me and Patil," he adds and she stiffens, remembering all the mumblings she has produced in the desire induced daze.

In the dark, he waits for an answer. He's still pressed against her, kissing her neck slowly, stirring all kind of emotions in her sated body. Then she decides she's too far gone already, too wrapped in the moment to turn back now.

She turns her head to offer the most Slytherin smirk she can muster:

"I never said anything about you being there."

 **A/N: So… um… yeah… what did you think of this particular gem right here?** J


	13. Glorious Female Anatomy

"Oh, great, you're here," Padma mutters the moment Hermione Floos in and her presence takes her by surprise. "Perhaps you can explain why Malfoy's creepy smirk is plastered all over his face and why the hell do we have to have the meeting here?"

Draco's living room is lighted only by two candles that flicker lazily, casting hazy halos around the furniture. In the dim light Draco's and Padma's shadows mold into one. It is suddenly way too warm for a September evening.

Hermione's eyes lock with Draco's. He leans back smugly in his chair, one leg draped over the edge of the leather armrest, the other planted on the floor. He holds swirls the firewhiskey in his glass with the demeanor of a man who is proud to harbor a secret that has been entrusted to him alone. Padma is sitting to his left, arms folded, eyebrows arched questioningly. Her glass is deposited on the small table near the window. Holding Hermione's gaze, Draco raises his hand, extends long fingers toward Padma's slim leg. Hermione watches hypnotized as his fingers move upward at a barely there distance from the brown skin, tracing the outline of her leg without really touching her. In the safety of that one inch distance, they skim over the space behind her knee, moving up towards the edge of skirt and hovering right at the hem.

"Should I go further?" he mouths to Hermione's agitated form, making her breath halt as a completely oblivious Padma arches an eyebrow at her.

 _It will happen tonight._

Unwillingly, Hermione's gaze fixes on Padma's body, analyzing her from the outline of her shapely legs, to the lovely curve of her hip and to the exposed skin that she can see in her cleavage. Her eyes linger there, on those two lovely globes, admiring the way they are pushed together under the black blouse that the dark-haired witch wears. Hermione wonders how the other woman's skin would feel if she were to flit her fingers across it… Her gaze travels upwards, to the long, graceful neck and comes to rest on those full lips.

Hermione remembers the way those lips tasted, the possessive way Padma held her in place, the movement of the hot tongue on hers. She feels her throat dry and swallows nervously as she realizes that these slightly parted lips look like they should be kissed at all times. Finally, her eyes rest on Padma's, the big black orbs that are now curious, suspicious.

She notices Draco winning smirk, as he sips from his glass.

"I need a drink," she declares in a strangled voice and Draco pours her a glass, hands it to her. Their fingers brush when he hands her the whiskey and even though they touched for hundreds of times before, it still sends a tingle down the length of her arm.

She drinks it in one go, closes her eyes and welcomes the burn down her throat, the way it sets her insides on fire.

"Rough day?" Padma asks. "Is this why we didn't go to café tonight?"

Draco chuckles and pulls Hermione into his lap, kissing her languidly, as if they have all the time in the world.

"Oh?" Padma breathes out, swirling the liquid in her glass. She stands there awkwardly as she watches Draco's hand sneaking around Hermione's waist, she sees the way he closes his eyes when he deepens the kiss, the way Hermione just melts in his arms. They both have their eyes closed, intent on each other and Padma chews her bottom lip, imagining what it would be like to be kissed by either of them. Perhaps that's her cue to leave?

Draco's hand hitch Hermione's skirt up, exposing the tan skin of her thigh, while his other hand cups her breast: a heavy sigh escapes Hermione's lip and Padma rubs her legs together, feeling the need to move in tempo with them. Just then, Draco opens his eyes, gives Padma a challenging stare and she is caught red-handed, lust obvious in her eyes.

He lets Hermione's lips go but she still clutches his shoulders, breathing heavily.

"Hermione," Draco murmurs, his eyes never once leaving Padma's "I think we should entertain our guest."

Hermione turns around slowly, notices a wide eyed Padma gripping the edge of the table behind her as she licks her lips. The air is hot and heavy and she is already flushed from her kiss with Draco. Her nerves are fraught with anticipation as she thinks just how wrong and hurried all of this is.

"Up, love?" Draco nudges her, his hands softly squeezing her bum, but it's the endearment term that gets her, the playful little word that makes her feel they have created their own language, their own little world that only stretches as far as the walls of his apartment go. Here, in the hazy light and the seductive gleam it leaves on their skins, the outside rules don't apply and when Draco stands up with her, bites her shoulder, a small moan leaves her, awakens the living creature inside her that demands satisfaction.

Padma does not move from her place, rendered speechless by the display in front of her.

"Go on, love," Draco whispers as he pushes her just slightly, the way one pushes a dove towards the sky. Hermione forgets her previous hesitation as her unsteady feet close the distance between Padma and her and she presses her lips against the other woman's mouth. The moment their lips touch Padma's body jerks into motion and she grabs her face in her palms, glues her body to hers. Hermione feels the lovely curves of the other woman's body pressed against her and she gasps from the contact. Padma uses the opportunity to sneak her tongue inside of Hermione's mouth and it tastes even better than the last time: firewhiskey and abandon. Hermione's hands are in Padma's hair, sliding through the luscious locks, massaging her scalp.

Whatever this is, the feeling that makes her weak at the knees, she feels she can't go on without it, already set on a path she hasn't walked upon before.

Her arms wrap around Padma's small waist and she sinks her teeth into Padma's lower lip, the way Draco does when he wants to strip her of her reason. But when Padma's breasts accidentally brush hers she's reminded the lovely, intoxicating creature in her arms is a beautiful, hellishly attractive woman: a soft moan erupts from the her body and reaches Padma's skin in form of goosebumps.

Padma is kissing Hermione like the world would end if she stops. In that exquisite euphoria, her arms hold the other woman steady and she feels drunk on Hermione's perfume and the taste of her lips. Padma's teeth sink into Hermione's lower lip until the other girl whimpers in pain, then her tongue darts out and licks the mistreated flesh in apology. Hermione's head lulls back and Padma takes the opportunity to lick the beautiful swan neck presented to her, her tongue trailing wet kisses from the collarbone to the earlobe. Hermione's eyes roll to the back of her head so Padma takes claims the first thing that she sees and pulls one earlobe into her mouth, sucking on it greedily. But the best part comes when she feels Draco's chest on her back as he presses her closer into Hermione.

"Oh, Merlin, this is perfect," she rasps, caught between Hermione's lovely body and Draco's hard chest. She arches her back and hears Draco's hiss when her ass collides with his crotch: he is already hard when her hands curve around Hermione's breasts, squeezing.

"I've… I've never done this before," she can hear Hermione whispering.

"Curiously," Padma replies, a little breathles as she squeezes again, "me neither."

She can hear Draco chuckle, his hot breath on her neck now and she tilts her head back so she can kiss him. The blond cups her jaw, brings those lush lips to his and she latches on to his mouth, tasting him with the impetus of a reconnaissance mission: she has no idea what it is she's doing, but loves it either way. When she finally lets go, just to gather some air into her deprived lungs, she sees his eyes trained on Hermione's, as if he only did it so he can bask in her gaze and when he leans in to kiss her one of his hands is still on her.

In the silence of the room, interrupted only by their ragged breaths, he takes both their hands and leads them to the bedroom.

Padma waits only until they're past the threshold and then promptly presses Hermione between her and the wall. Betting on her guts rather than her reason, she sneaks her hand between Hermione's legs, flattens her palm against the other woman core. Hermione whimpers and Padma feels the wetness in the cotton of the fabric: the sensations awakens something feral inside her, an urge to know something previously forbidden.

Before she has any time to reconsider, she pulls Hermione's prim office dress over her head and steps back a moment to stare at the body before her, clad in matching lace bra and knickers: so Hermione had prepared herself for a daring rendez-vous then? It's so surreal to have the Gryffindor Princess, the prim and proper Hermione Granger almost naked before her. It's even more shocking to discover such an inviting body, blessed with sun kissed skin, two perky breasts and the most wonderful legs. Hermione licks her lips, fidgets under the stare, but Padma loves every bit of that moment: she moves to Hermione, tries to unclasp her bra.

Her fingers are clumsy, she realizes she's fumbling and wants to laugh out loud because she remembers all the times she has mocked a lover or another for failing to remove the garment from the first try. Anxious fingers glide on the slippery skin, marvel at how impossibly soft it is. She had never thought someone like Hermione, with hands roughened by turning over thousands and thousands of pages, would have a skin that begs to be kissed. With a yank, the bra is discarded, catapulted somewhere. Out of the corner of her eye she notices Draco picking it up, as he lays back on the bed and watches them the way a lonely wolf watches its prey.

Padma lets her palms roam over Hermione's breasts, enjoying this new sensation, of full breasts filling her hands. Then the slightly harsh touch of nipples that harden. Hermione's body is a foreign land, a wish about to be fulfilled. Briefly, Panda wanders if Hermione had always had the same body and if so, how could Ron ever stray? She will never ever admit it out loud, but there had been times when she had imagined the three of them, herself, Ron and Hermione in the same bed. Now she watches Hermione squirming as she lets out breathy noises that bring chills to Padma's body. It's all so new and enthralling and it's out of instinct that she kneads those breasts, pinches the nipples until Hermione, flushed and breathing heavy, mumbles incoherently while her hands grab Padma's hips for support.

Padma bends, sucks the supple flesh of a nipple. Hermione's "mmm, aahh," comes out fast and Padma feels her own wetness pooling in her knickers, bringing with it a scalding heat. She sucks Hermione's left nipple, then grazes it with her teeth, then sucks again. It's the way that she herself prefers to be touched and Merlin, it's so thrilling to do it to another woman. Hermione's body is a playground and a mirror in the same time. Padma watches carefully every reaction, from the twitch of the other woman's lips to the way her back arches when her tongue flicks over a nipple. She sees herself in that pleasure, but she's aroused by it too. It stirs her painfully and she knows that she won't stop until she'll make that beautiful creature in her arms come. Hermione's hands tangle themselves in Padma's hair, guide her with tremulous moves. So Padma moves to the other nipple and, this time, her hand sneaks back between Hermione's legs to rub in rhythm with her sucking.

As Hermione's thighs trap her hand swiftly, she briefly wonders how the other woman tastes. How it would be to shove her tongue between another's woman pussy lips and to lave at another woman's clit the way her lovers had done to her.

Before she can ponder over it too much, she takes Hermione's arm and guides her to the bed, next to Draco. He doesn't move an inch, watching them with greedy eyes and restless hands, as he rubs himself through the fabric of his slacks to try and alleviate the fire in his groins.

Padma pulls Hermione's knickers down her legs, then drags her sweaty body to the edge of the bed. There, she kneels on the floor, hooks one of Hermione's legs over her shoulder and her mouth dives in.

Draco's sharp intake of breath precedes Hermione's loud cry. Padma swirls her tongue around and picks up the almost exact same taste she has caught on her lovers lips when they went down on her. Through all the excitement, she raises her head a bit, tries to control her own pounding heart. She sees Hermione's shaking body, those lust filled eyes, sees Draco's hands kneading those beautiful breasts as he's kissing Hermione's neck.

"Hey, Malfoy," she calls playfully. "I bet I can make your girlfriend come with just my mouth," she teases, giving the blond a wink. "I bet I can make her come harder than you do."

He scowls at her like it's an empty threat, but then Padma giggles and her head falls down again, her tongue licks Hermione's folds, from bottom to the top, then downwards again. Hermione moans loudly, then bucks her hips and it's like a surge of power is flowing through Padma's veins, this knowledge that she can please a woman as well as a man. Her hands move to Hermione's hips to steady and tilt her in different positions to see which one enables the other woman to moan louder. It's a cause and effect rhythm: the more Hermione enjoys it, the more Padma likes it. When her nails dig into Hermione's hips and she hears an "Oh, God!" her tongue undulates like a snake, remembers path her own lovers have traced, discovers wonders of female anatomy that were heretofore hidden from her.

Padma is no stranger to pleasure. She loves the pleasure of a sophisticated meal, the sensuality of silk and cashmere on her body and the touch of a man's hand in all the right places. But this is a new kind of thrill and the strangest part is that although she's giving a taste of heaven to another body, it feels like pleasing herself. Because the more she searches Hermione's body for places from which the pleasure will erupt, the more she feels the burning inside herself.

The little sounds Hermione makes… the purrs and sighs and outright wanton moans that escape her reverberate inside Padma, they seem to come from her own mouth in a tempo she only now discovers. And when she speeds up, coming to love the taste of another's woman core, the scent of that new sex becomes addictive, holds a certain power over her. One of Padma's hands sneaks up to cup the breast that she steals from Draco's own excited hands, while the other hand grips that small waist: she dives in with renewed force: ecstasy is not a drug, it's now a bodily fluid of the girl she pleases, a delicious poison that connects her deeply to the other person.

She is completely lost in the other girl's body: she tastes her on her tongue, she hears the moans of delight, she smells that unique scent and feels the maddening softness of that slick body that opens to her with no restraints, until she feels she can swim in it: they are two women sharing the exact same pleasure. Padma is stubborn in her determination, letting the primal need in her to rule her moves as she detaches from consciousness and acts out of pure instinct. Faster. Always faster.

Hermione writhes uncontrollably, her sweat dampens the sheet and then the ability to thinks deserts her completely as she comes hard, her ass jerking up from the mattress while the scream breaks her body into particles of pleasure. Padma rushes to lick it all up as she rides her high, grateful for the explosion. When she finally looks up, Draco cradles Hermione in his arms, kisses her forehead and pushes the wild mane of her out of her face, every last strand of damp hair. There's a flicker of amusement in his eyes and then something more, something so unbelievable and delicate that Padma widens her eyes in disbelief. And when he kisses her, he does so gently, calmly, in sync with the harsh breaths that still rake Hermione's body.

When the brunette looks down at Padma, this one makes sure to offer a smirk. With both her lovers eyes trained on her, she darts out her tongue, licks her lower lip with gusto, then says out loud:

"You taste like summer at the beach, Hermione."

A couple of lazy minutes drag by, and then, slowly, Hermione comes to her senses. Without a moment of hesitation, she disentangles herself from Draco and crawls to the edge of the bed to bend down in order to kiss Padma's neck with gratitude and something akin to dedication. Padma realizes the other girl hesitates to kiss her mouth, but oh, why would that matter now? She's certainly not shy and she most definitely enjoyed what she did. So she's the one to go back to Hermione's lips and they melt into each other once more.

Dreams do come true. Or perhaps only those nasty midnight fantasies.

Hermione is very much aware of how aroused Padma is. She kisses back with the same passion and then her hands guide the dark-haired girl to the bed, placing her between her and the snarky blonde who is now reduced to silence. She and Draco undress her in the same time, alternate kissing her. Hermione realizes she enjoys watching them kiss and gets dizzy with anticipation imagining what their bodies must look like joined: his pale white skin stretched over that is stretched over his strong muscles gliding on top of those arousing curves, covered in brown, glistening skin.

Together, they peel off the blouse and skirt, pull down the underwear and unclasp the bra, letting two gorgeous breasts to spring free, globes of perfectly round treasures adorned with large, dark nipples that are an invitation in itself. She leans in to taste one and Draco's mouth captures the other. Padma sighs, her hands tangle in both their hairs.

"This is perfect," she whispers in a faraway voice.

"The best you'll ever have Patil," Draco says, cocking an eyebrow, but Padma's hand comes down on his hand, pushes the cheeky mouth back to her breast.

Hermione moves lower. The orgasm she had experienced had been glorious, but unusual. With Draco she was used to give as much as she received. In their dance between the sheets, regardless of who came first, none of them left the bed until the other achieved satisfaction too. So to have another person give her and her alone that pleasure felt deliciously selfish, but ultimately wrong. It is now a hallow emotion, like something that has not reached its conclusion yet. So her tongue travels lower, stretching to enjoy every inch of that abdomen, to explore crevices, dips and curves that are so similar to her own. It's as if she recognizes in that body a secret she holds on her own. On her way down, she studies briefly Draco's fingers working fast on Padma's nipples, until the breathing becomes labored and Padma's mumbling get incoherent. Draco is watching her moves too, focused, reassuring and when she kisses Padma's mount of Venus his lips curl into a smirk. Their gazes lock : she knows he's challenging her. So, with her eyes not leaving his face, she positions herself between Padma's legs, pushes them wider apart and lets her tongue explore the wet flesh there.

"Oh, merciful Merlin," Padma mumbles. "Right there, please!"

How peculiar. A few months ago she used to blush at the mere mention of genitalia and now her tongue flicks over Padma's clit like it's the most natural thing in the world. And the taste is so similar to the one she has found on Draco's mouth after he went down on her… For the longest time, she had used to scrunch up her noise in disgust at the mere mention of the term "threesome", but if it tastes like Padma's sex and Draco's passionate kisses then she'll gladly do it every day. What was it that Padma said all those weeks ago about Ron?

 _He does that thing with his tongue between your legs…_

She raises her head up and the dark-haired witch groans in protest. Hermione knows that now it's the time to be bold.

"Padma," she murmurs. "What did Ron do?"

Padma face locks. Draco stops what he's doing, looks at her incredulously.

"I'm serious," Hermione continues, ignoring their shocked expressions. "I want to do it to you. What is the thing that he did with his tongue between your legs?" Then diligently as ever: "the thing that you enjoyed so much, that overruled your judgement. Let me do it to you."

Padma bites her lower lip hard because is worried that she'll regret any words that will come out of her mouth. But Hermione rubs her thighs in soothing circles, while Draco stands next to her all tense and ready for disaster. Hermione offers that familiar curious look and her decision is made.

"He used to… argh, Hermione, are you sure? I don't want to… Christ, this is so fucked up!"

"I want you to have the same orgasm that I had. Tell me how to get you there," Hermione says much cooler than she thought she was capable of. Then she cajoles: "Tell me."

"Argh, he… he would suck my clit for a really long time while rubbing at my entrance until I came," Padma replies and Hermione doesn't even let her finish before she bends down again to suck as instructed.

Hermione has to steady Padma in order to proceed, because the other girl is basically thrashing against the bed now. As her own pleasure clouds her judgement, in her feverish state she still realizes one thing clearly: she had wanted Padma ever since that night when she had found them, tangled feverishly in the late hours of the night. As twisted as it all is she reckons that perhaps, if she hadn't been so afraid of intimacy, she wouldn't have come home to a cheating lover and his mistress. As she sucks even harder, her imagination runs wild and she imagines what it would have been like if the decision to take Padma into their bed would have been one they could have taken together. Would her relationship with Ron have worked in the end?

She doesn't have time to think about it: she feels Draco behind her and only now becomes aware of the position she's in: face down in Padma's crotch, ass up in the air. Draco is on his knees, between her legs and as he positions himself at his entrance she comes to realize that yes, oh, this is exactly what she needs. He lays his palms on her lower back and then he massages her upwards, until he reaches her neck and the long fingers coil around it like a burning necklace.

Padma watches them through half-open eyes and she cries:

"Yes, do it, for fuck's sake, do it," and Hermione brushes his stiff penis with her ass.

Draco buries himself inside her slowly, grunting as he slides in. His grip on her shoulders tightens and he curses under his breath. Hermione stops her ministrations on Padma for a second, closes her eyes and focuses on that feeling, on that man who has become part of her body now and the exquisite pleasure that he brings her. Her body pulsates, recognizes him while it takes him in like a long awaited guest. And when she bends down to kiss and lick Padma again she feels like all three of them are connected somehow. Every time Draco pushes in she is pressed further into Padma's core. She hears the other girl's moans mixed with Draco's and her own and it makes her delirious. Draco thrusts into her just at the right angle and Padma's hands tangle in her hair, as she feels strong legs tighten around her neck. She struggles to breathe properly through her own pleasure as Draco increases his speed. Slick with sweat, her knees slip from the sheet and Draco's nails dig into the sides of her waist, in an effort to steady her. She would love to turn and see his face, but Padma is moaning so loud now that Hermione knows she's close. She herself is close too, especially since Draco has lost control and pushes into her at a mad rhythm. For once, Hermione's brain is silenced and instincts take over as the taste of another woman is all over her restless tongue. She dives in deeper and Padma screams so loud into the night that she's sure the neighbors across the street heard her. Hermione laps at her juices until Padma's legs slide down, shaking. Then her head falls on the mattress and she's shaking from the effort and the brain numbing way in which Draco thrusts into her. She closes her eyes, allowing only the feel of him and when she comes, minutes later, it feels too powerful to feel real. He comes too, not two seconds later with a low guttural moan that she wants to remember.

It is Draco that pulls her to his chest and then places her down on her back, between himself and Padma. She lays there, tired and happy and touching them both. In the afterglow, this feels like the ultimate freedom, an escape from her own fears and prejudices. Both their hands are on her, still touching, still craving. She doesn't think she has the strength to indulge in another session of exploring, but Padma kisses her passionately while Draco massages her clit: she understands that neither of them is done yet.

She notices Padma's hands switching back and forth from her body to Draco's as she grips and caresses, pinches and rubs. Her legs glide on Hermione's and her eyes drift between Draco and her, as if she wants to say something but cannot.

"Hermione," she finally whispers, looking at Draco's hardened penis with a strange look. "Well, there's no good way to phrase this and I know it sounds crass and obscene, but can I… oh, Lord, this sounds as wrong as it can be but… can I fuck your boyfriend?"

"He's not my…" but Draco cups her chin and kisses the rest of the sentence off her lips, pushes his tongue into her mouth to make sure she forgets what she was going to say in the first place. He tilts her head gently and she feels him pressed against her hip, hard and ready again.

It's out of instinct that she takes one of his hands and places it on Padma's warm breast. Draco's eyes flicker from hers to Padma's and then he lays back and smirks.

"Come on, Patil," he says, as he lays on his backside, one hand beneath his head, the other patting an empty space on the mattress, "you have permission to try my equipment. Be sure not to damage it, you greedy wench."

Hermione huffs, slaps his shoulder playfully. Padma hesitates, looks at her as if she expects her to change her mind any moment now.

But it's all real: Draco reaches out, pulls Padma to his side. Her breast dangle over his chest and there's a look on his face that Hermione cannot name. Padma takes charge, climbs on top of him, positions him at her entrance and then slides down while throwing her head back in pleasure. She picks up the rhythm fast and her harsh breaths ring in Hermione's ear as she observes the perfect portrait of pleasure before her. They embody a new form of art, an exquisite portrayal of pleasure that has her staring mesmerized.

But the most peculiar thing is that while Padma moves up and down, claims his lips, holds on to him with all her might, one of Draco's hand holds her tired one and, right until the very end, his eyes are focused not on the mighty witch that rides him, but on her tired, fascinated face.

 **A/N: One more chapter to go, guys! Writing this one has been such a nerve-wrecking experience! I would be extremely happy to hear your thoughts about it!**


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